Of the genesis of birds we know nothing,
save the legend they are descended
from reptiles: flying, snap-jaw lizards
that have somehow taken to air.


               But what does it matter
anyway how they got up high. We are often far
from home in a dark town, and our griefs
are difficult to translate into a language
understood by others.


But still, it is morning again, this day,
Look around . Perhaps it isn't too late
to make a fool of yourself again.Perhaps it isn't too late
to flap your arms and cry out, to give
one more cracked rendition of your singular, aspirant song.
Charlie Smith, Poet - Excerpted from his poem "The Meaning of Birds" in the collection "Indistinguishable from the Darkness"