Behind the pond, gorged with goldfish
big as river carp, the coop stands
filled with flightless Fantails.
On the other side of the property fence,
we point out favorites,
like Silky, Max, and Silvia.
We know nothing of sex.
While pigeons strut and coo,
other birds, too numerous and flighty
to name, ravage the red mulberry tree,
branches heavy with dark-purple
berries, bark and leaves thick
as the impasto of a Van Gogh.
Brando kept a flock, his rooftop,
On the Waterfront, where he escaped
to their presumed permanence,
like the names of loved ones.
Years later, the owner would move,
the pond dry, the coop silent-empty
as the winter sky. But for now,
in summer we race home for supper
and leap over seeds
shit out by those we envy of flight.