Poem: What Could Be Better?

Almost daily now, I go to
the train station to write.
When I first get there
I buy a cup of coffee and
I take it outside to sit on
one of the wooden benches.
And as though patiently waiting
for a train, I’ll watch the birds
that have nests under the eaves
coming and going, chattering.
Every so often one of them will
fill the air with a fragile song,
ever so sweet and promising.
And, sooner or later, I always
find myself wholeheartedly wishing
I were one of them, even though
this would mean an even briefer life.
Or even if this were to mean that on some
cold winter night I might freeze to death.
I might fall from a high branch, landing
on hard ground with a bitter, soft thud,
immediately to be forgotten. Yes,
even with these grim considerations, still,
I’ll find myself wishing I were a bird,
one free of thought, but not of song.
What could be better?