Bird says, “set the coffee here, please
and oranges if you have them.”

Between green wings, that of a bamboo shoot
so light green it’s almost wilting, Bird

grasps the white ceramic handle and lifts
the mug to his beak. From his high perch

on the flaking wood he can see
the morning Rainbow, squashed

and holy the mother of mirages herself
lingering low over choppy granite

(he wonders, how is there always
the Rainbow? —) Bird does not have

forever, eternity is for the desolate
feathered and nestling plastic beaks

into mother wings. The orange is so tangy
it puckers his throat. He sips his coffee

then places it gently on the porcelain
plate. A little dribbles over the sides.

Bird doesn’t have forever. The sky
is friendly now, his belly warm.

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