a poet & his silly philosophy

i hold myself from screaming, from clapping my hands, from hurling a stone, from doing everything there is to scare it off. instead, i sit at the edge of my bed, & wrestle myself to calm, as it irritatingly, irritatingly tap away the quiet out of my morning for i suppose, silly as it may be, i suppose, even in this storm-dark anger, that neither the bird tapping the window or the window being tapped intended to ruin my morning. the bird, as a bird would do, is only launching itself against its own reflection. the glassed window, like all glassed windows, is only reflecting what is standing before it.