Instinct (after Wayne Hogan)

Can't help myself sings the devoted bird

with a mouthful of wind instrument 

playing to the visible and invisible 

heavenly bodies sparkling with bird mind.

The bird, of course, cannot think. We're told

it stays instinctual and alone. And yet

I suppose myself this bird fluently 

inventing a melody despite what limits

we insist are present in that species, none 

of our business, and who do we think 

we are beside this mellifluous little 

spark of joy, in case anybody's ear-

dropping on the remarkable flow 

I almost want to invent as a show

of admiration, not that this bird 

needs anything from this audience.