When I Became a Bird

Sitting on the back porch,

a nest of red cushions surrounds me,

the weight of 

The Count of Monte Cristo

drags down my hands, my arms

while scents of springtime

privet, honeysuckle, pending rain

collide in my seasonal sneezer.

Smiling spontaneously 

eavesdropping on conversations


the Titmouse, the Finch and the Wren.

Between friends

you can say anything.

Dropping my book

I join the flock,

my voice ascends

tinkling with laughter

from my nest to theirs.