the Song

bird’s up to the other’s down
throat raised
announcing “it’s mine!” to the sky
only those of your kind hear
 
we think you melodious
how sweet and light
we find your song delicate and uplifting
and to your race does it sound a warning
or a terror, or maybe just plain stated ownership?
 
while here you opened the gates to sky
inside chains of red and gold
lattice, Eden-like, mathematical prison
structure that welds together matter
keeping the up up and the down down
not to cross paths
 
we know what we know and
don’t know what we don’t know
 
Rumsfeld was our bird, like you singing
and some thought the song was sweet
and to others it sounded alarms
 
and peril and beauty are
contrasting elements across the
demarcations of creatureliness
 
the fish cannot hear your song
your wings like fins
your feathers like scales
so similarly colored and compacted, mover
 
you press through the ocean of air
and you might as well be on different planets
for all the understanding
but there’s just one planet, you see