This Poem is for the Birds
I.
An hour before nine on a crisp prairie autumn morning,
walking in the trim dewy grass, they came.
A flock smaller than a robin, bigger than a finch invaded the park.
Politely they hopped and pecked for breakfast in the turf.
Red and yellow golden leaves danced in the tutu of morning fog.
Thin dark beaks sewed a woodpecker's tattoo silently into the lawn.
When they stopped their energetic hunt to swallow their bounty,
some displayed dark moustached circles beside their bills.
Between neck and chest they wore a black insignia patch.
Like military rank some were bars, chevrons, and some just a smile.
Against the chill was a red or scarlet square scarf upon the nape.
Their brown or dark beige shawl sported tiger stripes.
Black tipped tan wings wore a checked twill tweed design.
Their under shirt faded from tan to white bedecked with dots.
Suddenly they took to flight flashing white under tails like deer.
II.
The swooping prairie gulls bullied their way in
flapping grey letterman's wings at the nerd birds.
Blunted beaks like an old boxer's nose
harshly blared a stringent call like a ship in the fog.
Proud barrel chests aggressively pushed their own for a scrap.
Bandy flat footed legs gave them an old salt's drunken rolling gait.
Yet, when they flew it was arrow straight and no nonsense.
