BITTER BIRD'S LAMENT

I am the Bitter Bird.

Day in, day out, day-o,

I search.

My neck aches.

My legs are twigs,

too weak for my girth.

And yet I search.

With a constant bob,

my beak dips its tip

into the muck,

hoping to emerge with

something of value.

But alas, 99 out of

one-hundred times,

it comes back empty.

I hear the laughing echo of gulls, who soar and dive around me, whose beaks are constantly filled with the sweet catch of the day, from smelt to crabs, while I toil in mud and rock, hoping for a sea worm or sand flea.

Woe is me. Why couldn't I be a tern. I would fly to the sun, drop mussels on rocks, and feast at the table of plenty. Why did God make me this way, what did I do to deserve this suffering? And I am the only one who laments, while the rest of the flock labor mindlessly, slaves to the machine. Just other bricks in the wall.