It is morning, as declared by my aging
feathered friend from his cage.
A wild bird echoes back, and a duet ensues
of chirps and tunes of differing dialects
and breeds.
How easy to assume his caged song
is a lament: a cry of longing
to the wild, to the nature he knows not.
Truth be told, I suspect the reverse-
a mocking of the wild
seeking one spare meal
and the refuge enjoyed
by my sad, sad companion,
secretly revelling in the luxury
of gilded domestication.
Lori Boulard
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/call-of-the-wild/
