the yellow bird

I see the fence.
the stone wall.
the guards. the guard dogs.
I see the rifle
in the tower. the glassy
gleam of the scope.
I can almost feel
the barbed wire in my hands.
I see the cold tray of food
being slid into my cell.
I turn on the hard
bed I sleep upon.
I ache with
the emptiness of
no human touch,
or kind word.
I see the sky. t
he squared patch
of sweet blue.
I see the small
yellow bird on my
barred sill.
I am happy for the bird,
for his wings
and life in the air.
I smell the flowers in
bloom beyond the walls.
I hear the splash of a
stream full of melted
snow.
I imagine all that is
beyond where I am,
all that could be good,
then start digging.