Magpie in My Own Image
I built another bird with cages within— some level of amusement— a private glow. These cold days and the magpie catches my eye still; marvel of my creation—I can hear its hinges creak, which the unobservant mistake for a caw. I watch it scavenge—a consequence of careless programming— too busily loving my tinker-hands ticking the gears and springs into place. Someone once said, God loves a flywheel, and that is the only god I can believe in. Loud cries for grease—a prayer unless the voice is so lovely in song that even the sweet-whispered snow, the long-breathed whistle of grasswinds is no competition for the divinity of an ear —though I have it to spare, I cannot bear oil.