An excerpt from

by Derek Webster

Bird Catcher

I close my eyes among the trees
when the sun is high. Shadows and birds
return at twilight. And so do I,
to pull their delicate clawed feet
from my nets, and set them in cages
to sell at market on Saturdays.

But at night, in dreams, they fly away
at smart sharp angles, cutting aloft,
and I am trapped in my own craft.
What a dull brown bird I am.
I must learn to escape myself,
live in the tops of evergreens.