The birds, they worry they’d have to watch their mouths around me. Couldn’t drop their theories on shoulder blades, how humans would waste the gift of flight. They’ve seen my swampy eyes around town, know the way I cling to all my little facts: the kinship of chickens to crocodiles. The way beasts glid on clawed hands before wings. The trashcan swallows twitch to say, this dirty sky is yours, if you want it so damn bad. Hawks bob over bloody cement. An ibis scythes the plaza grass.