The common blackbird like spilled ink,
like a dead screen, like wrought iron
furniture, song like a coach’s whistle
and the grating of plastic parts
in a ten-year-old printer.

The starling like oil spills, constellationed
and hungry for spiders. The sparrow,
perpetual baby, the delight
of something small and young
eating french fries off the ground.

The cardinal like menarche. Finches
with many faces and clean lines, brutalism
in flight. The pigeon, grey
as a sensible skirt suit
when viewed one way

and aurora borealis the other; mourning
doves hidden somewhere I can’t see them,
puffing up like inflatable mattresses
with red feet and heads like
walnuts. Hummingbirds
with their slit throats, their hearts.
Their 1200 beats a minute hearts.
Their breakability.

The robin, more notable for her eggs
than herself,
for their possibility.