Conversations About God

I schemed that
birds had conversations
on a rooftop edge adjacent
to the window casement.
My eager heart imagined them
set about a Sunday’s reflections,
quiet amongst themselves.

These beasts are nature’s genteel wings,
feathered in the very best
goin’-to-town-brown,
and it seemed, for a moment,
in private terms,
they shared much more than sing-
ing
before one,
then two
and three flew down,
resumed attacking worms.

What’s real congeals
by consensus, the root of fact;
that sky above is empty black
and atmosphere’s what sun lights blue.
Under majority’s rule
we see things true;
that life exists in myriad ways
and days aren’t endless,
they fly away
as my talking Sunday birds did do.

Time has limits, I suppose.
It came from somewhere,
how it ends,
who knows?

Perhaps,
as we often do,
the birds discussed this,
deciding the which,
the what and the who,

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