You’re too far West, “indigo bunting,” nibbling at the needle grass seeds
As if no dire need brought you here, no Midwestern storm or Texas wind
Blocked your airy path; there as if you weren’t bluer than any sea in the distance
Or clear spring sky; a thing never seen, that impossible blue you occupy;
A living reflector (like us all), hue and tone so specific to your species, to yourself;
A whole Grammar of Light, defining its usage:
When present, you glow upon the wing like a Source; when absent . . .
Nothing to say that a single ray of light can’t