so easy to fall into the pool

of red wine, to feel foul

and frail and without purpose,

sing the praises of the finish line,

and then

I see the april phoebe

race from a piece of ground filled

with twigs,

back and forth, beak full

of tomorrow,

to the beam outside my bedroom

where the next generation will be

born, open mouths rising 

over the crest of that nest,

red and famished, demanding

and so vital, vigorous.

like this bird, zipping back and forth, zippering

back and forth

with focus.

healing the air,

knitting the tear in it, 

challenging me

to open wide

red mouth

filled with request

and thanks.