Why do the birds of Spring
sing louder and gather up
in flirtatious throngs
when in the northern woods
I play alternative pop music loudly
in my humble cabin
and dance like the womanly waves
of the nearby green ocean?
Are the birds of Spring gay?
Is Spring gay?
Budding and blooming,
the nipples on my chest.
Is the universe queer?
Scientists will affirm this
in their scholarly toil between
the gradients.
I dance anyways.
I still dance.
I dance away the afternoon.
I am gay.
And I am here.
The birds of Spring come and sing.