O Bluejay, beauteous Bluejay,
With all the sky wound in each feather,
From cloud-tinged tips to blazing ether;
Why must your talons and your beak
Peck and scratch the small and meek?
O Bluejay, fierce Bluejay,
Whose beauty ends before its call,
Who knows of pride but not the fall;
Would not the world be joyous and fair,
If you let more colors fill the air?
O Bluejay, dead-eyed Bluejay,
Alone on the concrete, bright, blue,
red with blood and all smashed-through,
You let your beauty go too far
You could kill small birds,
but not a car.