Bluebird
The first thing that comes to mind when the first bluebird of the year is seen amidst New England spring is that he must not belong here, not in all of this gray.
Luminescent, a glimpse of the deep sea miles inland
You cannot help but wonder if he would better camouflage if the sky really looked how you thought it did in the second grade.
You cannot help but wonder “How does this serve you?”
Brilliant blue,
Easier seen by a swooping hawk,
Easier targeted by talons.
Prettier-looking in a hat or a glass case than in the sky,
More wanted dead than alive.
A hanging mirrorball strung from the hidden moon
He is like you, my love
Too bright for the world you were thrown into, blind,
And asked to fly
