Birdsong, face it, some male machine

Birdsong, face it, some male machine gone addled—repeat, repeat—the damage keeps doing, the world ending then starting, the first word the last, etc. It's that etcetera. How to love. Is a wire just loose? Build an ear for that. Fewer, they say. So many fewer, by far. He's showing off to call her back. Or claiming the tree. Or a complaint—the food around here, the ants, the moths, the berries. She's making the nest, or both are. In feathers, in hair or twigs, in rootlets and tin foil. Shiny bits seen from a distance, a mistake. But fate has reasons to dress up. Stupid and dazzling have a place, a place, a place though never. She can't sing it.