We live on a park
which you would think
would be peaceful and it is
if you don’t count the birds
a thousand tiny lungs
in a relentless conversation
about worms and hawks
and there must be more
because they don’t let up
so I’m guessing they’re flirting too
talking about the weather
dissecting the weekend
goading each other to aim
for that poor bald head
and I read once that if you slowed
down a bird song
there are parallels between
that blizzard of notes
and Beethoven’s Fifth
but as I try to get some work done
while the frenetic chirping slams
into my thoughts as though they were
holding phys ed teacher tryouts
with all those plastic whistles
I realize it’s a silly analogy
for we don’t forgive the snowstorm
just because each snowflake
is a work of breathtaking lace.