Above the treading commuters, surveying,
you giggle.

Tiny flurries hopping rod to bar to antenna
making sure to be heard

among bus honks and train squeaks,
calling high.

Trilling like typewriters in the satellite dishes
that quiver undertalon,

tapping and flitting around brothers and sisters
of feathered energy.

I don’t know what you are but shades of beak,
blurs of tail,

fluid shards of chatter bursting skyward.
It rains, but you stay and laugh.