in the dirt a flicker

In the dirt a flicker

Saw not a muse but wings

Head firmly crooked to one side

Flipping and flapping

Making itself a crater not a bath

Not able to breeze the cool skies above

With a stick I tried to wake it

And knock some sense into it

Head stuck furiously flipping and flapping

Head down, down, down and into the ground

I must have made a sound

Behind me stood a man, a suit, with cigarette

I jumped back and away. He stepped forward.

Used his hands coaxing it to the sky

Flapped and flipped back to the dirt

Reached instead pavement unable to dig

Painful tries against soft feathered wings

The man used his cigarette hand to swoop it back to the crater

Its final bed for new exploration away from familiar territory

He clucked,”cha-cha,” shaking his head

I looked him in the eye and shrugged my soldiers

Hummed, “oh well,” without saying the words

We didn’t know each other’s language

Yet, we met on common ground at the Berlin fall

Recognizing this strange flickering and flopping

The flight down and into dirt... this strange bird with a twisted head