My Sack of Birds

When I look in my sack,

All I can find is lack.

But what is this sack?

And what is this lack?

The one I carry on my back?

To the next camp.

The next meal.

The next time to pack

All the things that I need

In the pack on my back.

Or could it be my other sack?

Could it possibly be my sack of birds,

Where I keep all my favorite words?

The words that scratch and peck and sing

Some speak some chirp some take to wing.

All the birds that you pack

On your back on the hill

All the birds that you need

For the words that you kill

When a word’s all you had

For your tent

And your quilt

And your sleeping pad.

And what is this lack?

And what is this sack?

And what can I find

In this pack on my back?