One must admire the desperate way it flings itself through air amid winter’s slow paralysis, and clings to shriveled fruit, dropped Coke bottle, any sugary residue, any unctuous carcass, and slug-drunk grows stiff, its joints unswiveled, wings stale and oar-still, like a heart; yes, almost too easily like a heart the way, cudgeled, it lies waiting for shift of season, light, a thing to drink down, gnaw on, or, failing that, leaves half of itself torn willingly, ever-quivering, in some larger figure.
from: Miscreants. Copyright 2007.
