A poet can translate birdsong much more faithfully than the biologist ever could.
birds
Finally a bath!
watching birds splash in
morning-after rain puddles
cleanses my spirit
Early bird
That trusty mockingbird —
you can set your sundial by it.
Lapse
At 2 pm, doves coo
an afternoon lullaby —
drowsy ticking
drowns out work —
the clock’s face
and leaden hands
fall napping into
the hour’s warm lap —
minutes nod off and
sleepy seconds snore
digesting noon away —
time teeters —
its breathing slows
weighed down by
heavy parts of day —
Starlings
European starlings
multiply like weeds
they are avian Borg
assimilating resistlessly
they are teenage girls
who will always travel
to the restroom together —
from yellow beaks
oddly alien noises
and so much chatter —
one or two are cute
but the whole crowd
is so flocking loud!
Verdin
the tiny birdie verdin
wears his heart on his sleeve
and sunshine on his head —
a hyper handsome hopper
with acrobatic feats —
calling chip chip chip
and singing dulcet tsweets
Grackles
A trio of virile grackles
skyward tilt their bills
puff up blacklit plumage
shriek and cackle and shrill
fan their great-tailed fannies
as knights in shining ardor
they strut around each other
just to try and get the girl!
Self-expression
in the desert southwest
doves call themselves out
and say their own names
in self-identifying syllables —
two in “ink-uh” of the little inca
eurasian’s 3-noted “you-ray-zhun”
four of the “white-wingèd dove”
and the unmistakable five notes
of the song “mourning dove i am”
April morning
My favorite weather is bird-chirping weather.
Vernal ode to euphony
nests bustling in leafy trees
eggs cracking open tenderly
vernal music on the breeze
excitement buzzing busily
tree roots drinking merrily
underground working tirelessly
restless flowers pacing weeds
manufacturing aromatherapies
reds purples yellows greens
poppies blooming endlessly!
Stragglers
bird alights on branch
mottled-lit golden leaves fall
drifting like feathers
Alone in the city
my heart is dying
for this gambel’s quail crying
lovesick for a mate
Fresh air & birdsong
An open window is good company, like the burning candle of Lichtenberg.
“Man loves company even if it is only that of a small burning candle.”