Like I know that humming,
Or the periodic flush caused by leaks,
And my fingers drumming,
My own call, though the message is in words,
Spit out upon the screen,
Like the pweers float messages on the wind,
Then I cut my nails as, too, the beak preens.
Its mortal danger's that it won't be heard,
Some things we've in common,
Too, breath, love, sorrow, creation, thoughts, fear.
Oh, and procreation,
Bird calls to the unknown,
Each offspring an echo of the desire,
To prove to ourselves that we're not alone.