For the Birds. I Suppose We All Have a Poem or Two Inspired by Our Feathered Friends. They're Part of the Story

Prompt 9 of #VerseLove. This one for the birds. Think about the ways the feathered ones have been with you in your world and write a poem to....In retrospect, I have more bird stories than I took the time to write yesterday, but it is interesting how they are present, almost like pets, in the way we live our lives. I was even thinking about how Grandma Vera had a caged bird and at the end of her life, she started wearing her hair and make up so she looked exactly like that bird....orange blush on the cheeks and tufted hair at the top.  

And yes, I do keep a file of birds that have taken their lives upon the windows of southern Connecticut. The flicker was mine...all the others were Pam's. "Bryan, there's another dead bird on my patio. Can you come take care of it?"

My pleasure.

Birds of a Feather

    ~b.r. crandall

It goes back to Lois,

sitting on her back porch

listening to frogs

and naming the wonders

(before she became

a cardinal to remind us

we’ll never know).

“Don’t be a Jay, Crandall.”

Blue feathers bully cats.

She moved in one summer,

Lois’s sister, after a house sold

and the ocean wasn’t ready yet.

“Do you have a woodpecker?”

she asked. I wake up in slow motion 

and responded with snark,

“No. It’s flesh like every other fellas.”

I did have woodpeckers, though,

northern flickers feasting

fiendishly on lush larvae -

carpenter bees laboring and lumber-jacking 

into rotted wood frames.

     First came the buzz-nuggets,

     then came their regurgitation.

It didn’t take long for peckers to follow, 

     drilling my home into swiss cheese 

(caviar, I suppose).

and I buried 

one who fancied himself Narcissus.

He wouldn’t leave my bay window alone.

I’ve also taught chickadees, 

ducks and spread ecological literacy

with black-capped herons 

along creeks  where bears once ate yucca.

I’ve picked blueberries

with cedar waxwings, 

and cursed at Danish magpies

& chickens who were 

as stubborn 

as their sun that

never sets.

She was my

witness

when Eagle

found his nest.

and we pray 

to Lois,

whenever we host burials

on her patio

while listening to frogs

and naming wonders

along the Long Island Sound.

The 

eye

of

the

sparrow

is

my 

alarm

clock.

We

can 

only 

hope 

for 

white

cranes

&s andpipers.