Tired, tired, trapped, and barred,

Framed by vast confining hands,

Tricked by sun, ill-fed, ill-starred,

Blown by fate to hostile lands,


Nothing matters to a bird but light 

In a place whose only hope is flight;


While here, on a noisy tourist beach,

Birds assemble just on whim,

Entire menus in their reach 

From the palm trees' weaving rim,


With the universe's sea white roar 

Nesting on the island's open shore.


January 9th, 2002

Gray's Beach, Waikiki