and he sobbed
plucking narcissus
from a constellation
of speckled birds –
a hungry hawk chasing
a great murmuration
for the easiest meal,
peeling across pink
after tiny punched holes.
dandelion seed.
the like.

he realized no one watched him;
no one cried –
no greater birds
in the godless countryside.

it only gets harder to sit
when you’re a slow starling,
when you’re a hawk, starving.

doesn’t it?