John Kinsella

The islands are low to the water
and flat with heat - the birds
melt interiors, which spread
to the shore. There, the sands
shrink once more,
and contract to belief.

In other parts, the tune
of robins and finches
is small, and their red
tight as anxiety; inside
they outfly larger birds.

The texture of a feather
forms in language,
to the bird our first movements
vary, and expression
can be anywhere.

Rebellious, migratory
flights don't end up where
they're supposed to, and water
runs through the vista.
Sometimes we coincide,
now more than ever.