Clever Bird

Is it low effort? Do I not meet your criteria for complete? Genuine? To where must I retreat or advance to find you and others too, ready to meet me on my melody, ready to move with my rhythm, and speak in the language of unity? I wasn't raised to be praised, but at any rate, I was, to some, remarkable. And I grew to be— what? Deplorable social disease, lazy and unproductive, ungrateful? In whose eyes? Not God's eyes, not my God's eyes— the universe giving birth to itself endlessly, in many bodies. On that scale, is my work not a new beginning? Is it not worth a little credit? For what do those do who have found there is no hill to climb but to return to a state of childlike innocence and occupation without boundary? I could be wise too, if you grant me the dignity to say I have carefully selected my every activity as a joy to every being in my corporeal vicinity— to the praise of a choir, of all those who have found me remarkable, and not only strange. And with that energy, I will change, always, forever upward, against the pressure of the rainfall of a thousand sad souls. My word, what a swell. My ark— my unshakable heart of a lion proudly stands in the waters of the world's collective misery, well assured that to my mother, I'm a very clever bird.