There is a tiny dinosaur that visits me each morning,

it's called a bird,

now,

though it doesn't know that,

I can tell,

from the way it attacks,

me,

the other birds in the the trees,

and me,

again,

and I'm starting to take it personally;

I provide your food,

though, admittedly, you're obviously,

evolutionarily capable of getting food for free;

haven't I made it easy?

Easier, at least?

Easy isn't what you want or need?

With talk like that, it's easier to see why you're humming flower-to-flower and not stomping through trees—

Millions of years. Two hundred twenty-three, sure, I know;

you've told me before,

but give us that, even just one million of those years,

where will we be?

Okay, well, presently it's hard to disagree with that,

but,

a precipice presents opportunity?

No, I didn't intend that to be a question, but

the future always is,

a tree from a seed you never saw,

growing seeds you'll never see,

sprouting branches and leaves and flowers,

eventually,

hopefully;

fruit can't fall far from the tree if the tree never grows tall at all, I guess;

what a mess;

so many trees felled;

we heard every scream;

now, all we do, too, you, bird, and me, is tweet;

low hanging fruit is sweet,

but sweet is fruit's sign of decay,

a red flag is a warning, but it attracts just the same,

ripening day after day until it drops from the branch and leaves the tree,

it's a euphemism for dying,

obviously,

I don't usually like to spell things out,

I like to attack subtextually,

but when I've had to spell out

N - A - Z - I

so frequently and people won't say

L - I - E

even though they know what it means and their job is to explain what it means and why it means what it means,

and, maybe, just maybe, provide some context,

historically,

I've been told it repeats,

again, not by you, though that's your job to do,

I've been told by the survivors living,

now,

in an echo;

I can't take anything for granted,

now,

anymore,

evermore,

we never should have before —

that we isn't royal, it's spoiled like mayo,

and just as white, too —

and neither can you,

please,

do what you do for someone other than you;

especially while we're all rotting here,

in this country,

you know the one I mean,

united by volatility and the very hatred of we —

and, once upon a time, royalty —

in states of gaslit self-defeat;

still,

on the same tree;

a frantic grasp at generational extension,

watching the willing be eaten;

as if that's what it takes to survive death,

despite their very own preaching.

The hummingbird flaps furiously in front of my face.

It visits me every morning to remind me how small I am.

It visits me every morning to remind me of who I was,

and who I can be among the we,

of the dinosaur it used to be,

and how much smaller we were and will be, if not...

if we...

if only...

Finally, I ask,

but how does the I become we?

The hummingbird flies away, then,

rudely,

without answering me;

every morning, though, I wake up listening;

eventually,

I'll speak.