Rosy feathers flutter,
Like excitable jazz hands,
And little scaled feet tap
A rhythmic beat,
Hopping from place to place.
He flitters with a song,
Trilling melodic tunes
From his rounded beak,
With a loud mouth for a small thing.
He is hard to catch,
A pink breasted finch
Too restless to sit still
And a habit of shy confidence.
But in my dreams I hold him still
And stroke his soft feathered head
As he sings sweetly,
A chirp of adoration,
A fowls appreciation.
The finch is a branch bird
That sits with others wings,
They surround with black beaks
And sing a social song,
Which could go on all day long.
I watch from my window,
Streak of pink from the skies,
And I sigh bitter-sweetly
Knowing dreams cannot create nets
Or gold rimmed cages
For holding beasts of frivolity.
Pink breasted finches
Know not of friendly eyes
Watching,
Neither do they know my heart
A beating to their tapping feet.
But why cage such pretty a thing
When a pet knows not
How to love,
Only to sing of freedom
And cry with black beaded eyes,
Pink feathers wilting
Under the stress of loyalty.