Last night I groomed my spirit bird
to make his plumage shine;
deftly I spread the oil from head
to tip of spine.

He sat content to let me preen
a glassy sheen on every feather,
protective shield to guard him
in every weather,

unlike those birds in dream past
with ruffled barbs, unfed, or ill,
or on the bottom of the cage
ominously still.

Other dream birds, tame,
will perch upon my finger,
fly giddily around the room,
or play the singer,

but this bird bends to my touch,
ready to carry my reply
to a message I can't quite grasp,
some half-heard cry...