I could have been born a bird
on a gravel island in the creek,
learn to hide in a small world
before I found the gentle grace
to fly, hop rock to rock
as mother drew intruders off
with shoreline flaps of her white
petticoats, feigning injury,
crying seriously in low circles.
I could have been born a bird
without certainty, without worries
about my death or taxes.
drycrikjournal 
your only worry would be eagles . . .
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A cheap last line, Peter, for this time of year, rationalized in part by differentiating man’s obsession with death and its planning as opposed to the worries of birds. The poem needs a rewrite to incorporate the Killdeer’s dramatics to protect her nest and leave death out of it.
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On the Ides of April, I know the feeling. 🙂
janet
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To succumb to authority is seldom pleasant, especially in the spring.
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Ah, but if born a bird, how many of us would suffer? We could see your beauty and hear it….but not read it. You were born right where you were supposed to be…and We needed you to be.
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