Seven forty five in the blessed A. of M.
They perch in rows with drooping feathers
barely there, fluffed against the cold,
in the cages of their own physicality,
in the cage of these gray walls.
I understand but I have to begin.
Politely, they try to listen to my warble,
little heads cocked, eyelids half closed.
A wrong note elicits twittering,
a sort of melody causes answering song.
Gradually, like dim rays of the peeking sun,
the bodies straighten slightly,
feathers smooth and scratching begins.
One sings and another, then another,
they all share their songs.
Nine fifteen before we know it.
They fly from the room, past my perch,
fluttering, chirping, songs in their throats.
They will return in a few days
to sit once again on this vibrating wire.