I watch birds
coming and going
in the branches.
Being spring
I wonder if they’re cold.
Have a fear of falling.
Do they get dizzy?
Being small,
do the heavens
seem too big?
They would swallow me up.
They live such short lives,
do they regret
so few hours
allocated to them?
And then,
watching them soar,
sing out,
play in the immensity,
I would,
given a choice,
be a bird
for all the right reasons.