Feathered sadness

The bird was sitting amid the branches,
unmovable, almost invisible,
Tweeting so low, sounded like weeping.
Ruffles from other wings didn’t disturbed him.
The frenetic chirping of the other birds,
and low flights, and straw hunting,
just promoted two or three little steps to the side, nothing else.
Wings meant nothing, not even the overrated freedom,
Envied by so many.
And the sad tweeting continued for a long time,
Until the sun went down,
And all the birds silenced in reverence to the night.