Yellowhammer

Scribble lark, writing lark,

Eggs covered in marks,

Little bird, pretty bird,

Hunted by hawks, singing

A little bit of bread

And no cheese, while living

Mostly on seeds. Dreaming

One ordinary night,

A person woke thinking,

For no reason, your name,

And that led to thinking

Of your eggs scrawled with marks,

Your bright irrelevance,

And your frailty, your song.

Names are constellations,

Leading only to names,

What’s not in worlds or stars

Maps like bird songs but not,

But not, but not, but not.

There was no creation

Until constellations

Gave birds’ eggs metaphors,

Birds’ songs words, a little

Bit of bread from those seeds.