I think it’s comparable
that black-feathered phoebe
rock-perched and head-cocked
and me chair bound swivel-eyed
a flycatcher and I
both on the hunt
for the motion of a morsel
in the waters of our worlds
its wings are my mind
its beak my pen
it catches a gnat
I a wiggling idea
it can follow the swallow
with a quick chirp
while I must chew
masticate well
a poem needs time
and enzymes
to break it into pieces
before consumption
then a bit more time
before spitting it back out
to feed the world