The bird in the tree looks down at me,
Thinking me foolish for wanting his wings.
I walk a thin line between today and forever,
Longing to fly, but instead -
I slither on my belly like a snake,
Searching for the end of the journey
Where all will be well.
Kurt will be there, and Chris and Craig.
We'll have a drink and play cards;
Dead man's hands all around...
No winners, no losers,
Just knowing smiles and thoughts for words.
No ticking away of time,
No grieving lost love.
Yeah, no grieving lost love.

The bird in the tree looks down at me,
Calling me a coward for wanting his wings.
I tell him it's not so much to fly
as to escape.
He laughs, and flies away...


© 1996 Barry Veinotte