There I was, walking along,
and all thought was interrupted
by a horde of small beings
and their endless chatter,
the bushes along the trail full of motion,
and I thought of goldfinches,
those birds who know pure joy,
until I saw the brown stripes
and the flashing patches of yellow.
It sent me home to the shelf,
and then I knew the name,
remembered their story,
and I thought, what brave birds,
ready to fly a thousand miles
to some uninviting patch of taiga,
guided by ghostly memory
to some unconscious compass point;
and thought of myself,
anchored to this place like a rock,
and whatever my fancies,
wherever I might want to go,
entirely without their wings.
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