I have been trying to tell people for years,
that there is something pregnant in the darkness.

A prehistoric bird perched in the rafters
of your condominium, townhome, high rise, track house.
Regal and terrifying-
And ready to take flight.

If you could see it plainly you would realize
it has your grandfather’s wrinkled brow
And holds the image of your own aged face
in its deep set eye sockets and sagging gullet.

But you’ve been told not to believe in mystical
phenomenon like Old Nessy or crop circles
And that’s fine- forget that.
I’m talking about something else-
a bird

Like Emily Dickenson’s feathered hope trapped under
Poe’s floorboards, beating its wings with primal frenzy.
Or maybe Maya Angelou’s caged bird singing
for freedom in the most beautiful blue tune.

I suppose it could be one of Darwin’s mockingbirds
With a strange mutated beak
denounced for eating seeds with unnatural expertise;
Heaven knows they’ve unleashed enough riot.

But the point is this: it’s there
In the dark-
Potential energy coiled
in its terrible wingspan;

The entire arc of human history
Enfringed by golden feathers.