Wildes Writing

by Tim Wildes

30 days and 30 nights,

those damnable birds besieged me.

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They shunned me with song

unfamiliar to folk ears.

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Beholden to Earthly sorrows,

I was no interlocutor;

a pitiable audience.

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And in that tumult

by His own, fallable hand,

I spied a particularity in them fowl.

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A wanton liberation, therewere

in the flock’s hymns,

a liberation which promise me

the unchartered allowance of passage

thereunto them fowl.

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And in heat

did them fowl reveal a form that were true,

a form who resemble myself in caliber.

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I demanded of the man his character,

yet he were sullen

as to hardly hold fortitude to bow skyward to face me,

nor did he appear a man to care.