When Francis preached love to the birds

They listened, fluttered, throttled up

Into the blue like a flock of words



Released for fun from his holy lips.

Then wheeled back, whirred about his head,

Pirouetted on brothers’ capes.



Danced on the wing, for sheer joy played

And sang, like images took flight.

Which was the best poem Francis made,



His argument true, his tone light.