Outside a rainy day window
is a bird perched on a power line.
Pinkish hue on slick feathers
while rain drops cut fall upon its beak.
Staring straight into my room,
it wonders who is inside these warm white walls.
The window gazer sings his songs about the human,
asking why he sits on a chair inside.
It turns its head left to right,
and back around to look at the orange sky.
Amidst conifers, phone calls
water and temperate breezes
it turns again to look at the same tree
I always turn to on days of worn weather and
It could fly anywhere it pleases,
come and go alone or
with another song singer.
It could stare through any window,
feast its black eyes upon all the trees it could reach.
Long neck, bright beak, flushed feathers;
it chose the view in front of me.