Sometimes I am a dirty little bird.
My feet wrap around branches winds will never clack together.
My tongue lies in the splatters of rain that pool in low spots.
I swallow what feet say to the ground,
and none of their claims are sweet enough to caress my mouth.
I stand for hours.
I close on nothing.
I cannot sit up,
and I do not bow.
Sometimes I am nothing but a dirty little bird with a wet beak.