This brain is far too laden with facts

useless and otherwise

for the multitude of minute details

necessary in identifying fauna.

My bird watching

is more akin to shallow mysticism

if mysticism was a spectator sport.

I’ll sit at the window

though rarely with binoculars

or any other tools a birdwatcher may use

and look up at the swallow,

or finch,

or whatever it is

not to regurgitate its migratory patterns,

but to contemplate the deaths it’s foretold

What gods it’s heralded

not necessarily that specific bird

though maybe

but other birds of its species

whatever that is,

to lead souls to an afterlife

by wind, boat, or rainbow

I’ll question whether such a bird

is particularly adept at flying

in the necessary directions

for augers to auger

or maybe if its bones

having been bleached in the sun

and carved into wands,

could be cast upon sheepskin

for shiny new beginnings

But never will I make the leap

from esotericist

to bird-er

or ornithologist

or whatever they’re called.