I neither sow nor reap.
I dine at seed bags left in shade.
I drink from wells that pool
beneath the bucket’s ticking drip.
I am king of barns, emperor of silos.
I rise on grace and air.
I do not work for my buoyant bones,
my fat beak and sooty song.
I labor only for string and sticks,
for long dry grass and leaves
to build the ample nest you notice
here above your head,
the bed you sigh for
when night comes cold
and you, still in the open,
lie down under trees.
For nests I dare the breathless flight
between the slinking cat’s green eye
and small slung stones of boys.