There are no birds on the highway.
They don’t nest in streetlamps
as the metal machines screech past,
relentless as weather.
No soft down mothers huddle in their twiggy beds,
feeding earthworms to eager mouths.
This is no world for babies.
All grey with salt and soot
and when a lone berry falls onto the asphalt,
we warn the hungry crow away, before it’s crushed
by the tide of modern progress.
So I’ll push the infants out of my womb
before they’re ready, before they can even try
to forage a life in this place,
this paved-over road where flowers will never grow.
Let their souls rest in the ether,
a dream someone else can enjoy
from a green field where robins sing.