The Bluest Bird
The bluest bird I ever saw was in the middle of the road,
And I, going forty-five on a lane made for fifteen,
Couldn’t stop in time to take a good look, so a quick flit
Of true blue was all I saw lifting into the morning air.
Even I thought it strange that I managed to see the silver and blue
Of the can an oncoming driver lifted as he squeezed past
And the blue sky mirrored in another driver’s shades,
But the shade of the ruby breast on that bluest bird,
I missed, moving way too fast on a road not made for speed
On a silvery morning, missing, too, the tender notes
From a throat that could have lifted me high into a sky so blue
It might have hurt my eyes.
