November Rain

The rain is slightly confusing.
An outlier in November,
Heavy and nearly nonsensical,
It is dark and warm
As it leaches the leaves off the birches.
Soon the oak leaves will fall as well
Though the beeches still resist
And will chatter late into the winter,
Loitering long enough to
Sing welcome to the spring.

Out my window I notice
That this persistent shower
Is washing the bird droppings off my car’s windshield
Oh joy!

Plopped there by chickadees and titmice

Who have gathered sunflower seeds at the nearby feeder
Grinds from their gizzards.
I feed them as they bring me happiness
-The nature of joy found in such common beauty-
And so at the moment
I gather in
And am buoyed by two joys.

The Nest

How many bird nests are built
without an avian thought,
accomplished by only the singular purpose
of nesting?
Are the eggs to come simply
an impulse following
a hormonal dream,
a surprise.
Just that?

Do the birds know their truth,
such as given to them by
the wind
and water
and sun,
as the seasons spawn
the secret imperatives...
and so
is the nest is just as much the bird
as the egg laid
the feather fledged
the song sung?

And then to sometimes lose it all
dropped down
dropped low,
does it render them sad
their hopes cast down too
so tragic,
witnessing the empty shell that empties the heart
as these moments seem to feel?




Is it their loss too
or do they simply do the next thing that comes,
free of such bittersweet moments
free to fly into the morning sun?

The Real Thing

It's the real thing.

I held a goldfinch in my hand,
It was a hopeful spring day,
The seed that he had gambled for
Still held tight in his bill.
I, the man of see-through glass
He, the bird of see-through air...
It was a grave misunderstanding.
I made a cup of love for him with my hands
As he melted away
Like a lump of coconut oil in my palms
He took some of life's sad poisons
With him.
He was the kind king,
The king of the maples.

Cautious

Intrepid creatures
Leaning towards the south
Blasted by the winter winds
Taking it all
In their measured way
Holding their own
For another
Snow driven moment
Gripping the rail
Girded against the gale
All for one small seed
Or a taste of suet
Such a fine-line scribes
Their economy of survival
 
I’ve invited them inside
But they decline
Muttering
Something about the loss
That comes with your
Cautious civility.

It Is a Time

I swear they are playing
A small flock of small brown birds
Flits from bending stem to bending stem
Grasses bowing slightly
Springing down when they land
And then up as they soon depart.
And if beaks could break a smile
The true story might be told.
It is a time of richness
A time of many seeds and
In this moment of joy
They eat fully
And fly freely.

 

 

Act Two

Now I have found two of you
Or at least you have shown yourselves…
Like in the second act of a play or pageant
Acted out in the hot days of summer.
And the second act is full of dialog:
A discussion back and forth
A call and response chorus
Of an operetta,
For I hear the music
But do not speak the language.
But by the staging and the costuming I can infer
That perhaps you are parent and child
In the throes of avian adolescents
Working out the final solution whereby wings
Flap and you separate
Both greater for it?
Or maybe you are siblings and squabbling
Over turf or food or the keys to the coming kingdom?
Pleasantly distracted by the drama,
I am keeping my ears keen and my eyes
To the sky.

Bird-hop

Best thing I ever did
Was to sink eight cedar posts into
The soil upright,
Stubbed off at five feet.
A garden fence.
Catbirds and Wrens bird-hop the tops
Back and forth.
Peering towards the potatoes
They issue a silky call
Then drop down.