Sometimes I wonder what a bird sees
at high noon, when the sun is at its peak;

when rustled roof speaks heat
at the sun’s flare of touch. I wonder
how many of them had died a crashing
airplane, all too distracted by the glitz
of those rusted roof, façade from their
point of view. Or have they just fell off their

air, to wallow liberally in their new found
home, glaring, inviting them through
hints of the sun’s fingers, poking through
their vision.

I found a skyscraper once. It stood
so tall that it abhorred all the sun’s rays

and left me crashing to its well glinted
torso.