Losing Myself In A Mockingbird

Cataloguing the sounds of
Mockingbirds, planning parties
As he is to leave. I(we)
Took the
Succession of power struggle
And I(we) examined it
Under the microscope.
Of a Mockingbird.

It is gray. It is blue and
Gray but not yet: I(we)
Can see the
Place where
Blue will be only there
Is no one to say
That it will be: but
I(we). If it us, then
Perhaps I(we) may
Think for my(our)self(selves)
And not yet.
No.

It is better the rambling
Messiness of the
Underbrush, the forest
That is barren of trees.
On wooden gazeboes and
Half-planted azaleas, the
Mockingbird pretends
He is wind and much
Closer than I(we). The
Blue is
Expectant. Anxious
Perhaps as pressed against
Sky the
Playfulness of evolution.

He is going.
Like a goldfinch when
The Mockingbird comes.
Darwin would be
Proud.

Then, perhaps, I will
Look and see myself among
The unkempt perennials,
Saw-grass heron patterns
And I(we)
Shall
Explain the true
Sound of a
Mockingbird deciding
To
Fly.

To
Be
Wind.