The homebody bird waffles
about flying.
His head snaps right then left, up
then down. Undecided.
No breeze to help extract -
himself from shore, littered
with taco chips.
A few flutters of feather sends
him back onto the land.
I enjoy his feeble indecision and
keep him in this state by
tossing more chips.
He seems content chowing.
Not having to hunt then mince
bugs down his tube.
He swallows till stuffed then
sits and stares with me
into the air, together we
stare at this life.
The seabird
could do the same
but ignores the chips.
A driven creature, ready for takeoff
as if his tail had been scorched
by the sun.
He must fly to live.
He wants to work, to feel
his feathers in full sail
straining
against wind, eyes angled
at the sea.
I want to be like him, not me,
always looking down,
content with easy morsels
tossed my way.
I want to be a seagoing bird--
Close one eye,
raise wide and high
my wings and hit the wind.
