Bowerbirds
I've been hiding behind the bushes watching you pile things secretly. A heap of orchids near the entrance to your House of Twigs. Acorns in the backyard, and your chimney reaches mid-tree. You even have a sugarcane mailbox. You're a baʊərbɜrd and I've seen the way your fingers form a wing. Ptilonorhynchidae. Cat bird. I know you've heard a rustle, but that's just the way my heart beats. I spend my days picking out fruits that you might like and my nights dreaming of growing antlers. I want to paint our smiles, but beaks - can they even move? I have a pet spider, but I'm scared to death of it, so I keep her in a jar and feed her fireflies. I'm sure they taste just like they smell; awful. I've learned that my lungs can hold the biggest sighs when I've spent the last few days pushing smoke and swabbing tar. I spell your name with pieces of grass and clover and call the work of art kismet, where nature and concrete shake their hands and become good friends until a gale or zephyr. I wonder sometimes what patience tastes like, so I open my mouth and just wait. I could go deep sea fishing in one of your eyes while I stand on the lid of the other, because in my sleep, I imagine your skin as sand and your iris an ocean. All of this while cloak-and-daggering in this thicket - I've made up my mind.