The birds are back, flying
in and out of our back
yard, screen-less aviary.
Black-capped Chickadees,
pushy Black Crows, Rose-
breasted Grosbeaks, Eastern
Bluebirds, bossy Bluejays,
American Goldfinches,
White-crowned Sparrows,
Cedar Waxwings, Northern
Cardinals and two Mourn-
ing Doves, who move slowly
around the pond over the
bridge between the pond
and waterfall doting on
each other like love-sick
love birds. And then like a
Jerome Robbins’ choreo-
graphed moment where
all the dancers stop on
cue, the birds fell silent.
My wife and I looked up
from the fire in the fire
pit and one, lone Mocking-
bird, assigned to speak
for everyone as usual, step-
ped out on a limb and asked,
“Why did you come back so
soon from Arizona? We’ve
got icicles on our beaks
and we’re freezing our
feathery asses off. But
as long as you are here,
the bird feeders are empty
and we’re all hungry,
especially the damn Blue-
jays, as usual.” “Well,
Welcome home to you, too,”
I said, “I suppose I could
ask you all the same
question, but I won’t
because you might get
mad and all fly away, like
fair feathered friends, so
if you’ll excuse me, I’ll
just go get you some bird
seed. And tell the Bluejays
to back off, please, a lot
of good that will do.”