All the world’s a life-stage
A starling sees her reproductive part
through lenses tinted by divinity.
She does not mewl for justice
when the rains blow down her nest,
and her soft chicks die in fair, round belly.
She does not mourn for them with woeful song,
or for days on eggs, turning again, or
for chickish trebled peeps. She soldiers on
to lay another clutch and double down
her lover’s plan for this life-stage; so long
as there is light, he’ll fire again this spring,
if just the effort doesn’t damn them both
to mere oblivion. A world’s too wild when
all the world’s an egg and she is but a layer.
And the last scene ends this strange eventful
history of life, when young can fledge sans fear,
sans spectacle, sans banding from the scientists.