Two Birds

What I am doing.
What I am not.
Two conversations and
I have nothing new to say.
On Sunday I saw two birds.
One hopped for life, the other felt the force of the grass from an unknowable height. I knew in the five minutes between them that I was both. Unable to fly beyond obvious commonality. Dead against the immovable objects I’ve imagined for posthumous admiration in the shedding of mortality.