SELF-FLICA con 1960s-Era Fedders AC

Pajaritos
for JS

We might be birds, they say.
Hollow-boned, radiating. Taking flight
amid the weight of disobedient winds.
Birds, they say, feeding on florecitas, and hearing, then,
such infallible sounds as our aviary travels allow:
the marvel of nectar, so volatile, and of wing-flapping and crooning,
and these verisimilitudes, these piqued feathers and calamities—
A palm snapped in two.
Two ends. Madagascar palm. Exquisite oddity. Two spindly beaks.
Extraordinary! And are two heads the future?
Such miracles! Milestones!
Beneath the whispers of a skyline, we watch these palms now
Sprout under the watchful gaze of grackles and little dogs.
We might be birds, they say.