A Girl of My Feather

In truth, I’ll have to first admit she’s “cute.”

Few birds are blind, but blinder for the sense

in which I’ll hold her at a distance, mute,

and trace her wing as sight we both dispense.

But when the line within her beak turns round,

the sound of it is something very plain:

“I see you; hail.” My sense of vision found

a thing I do not think my eyes contain,

and neither will presume the other’s form.

Then both will spew their innards forthright out

to spring the artless traps, as to inform,

like turkey vultures, “Love you; it’s the norm.”

Some ugly ducks are sure they’ll find their swan;

some of us loons would feed on carrion.