Could be birdsong…what for?
I only hear, I don’t understand.
Say it again, please.
“This is mine, you can’t have it!”?
I get it. Your tree, your branch.
You needn’t be so insistent.
Must be young ones hanging
in the vine pot on the front porch.
Silence reigns as I brush
past their leafy refuge
and slip safely inside, then
the “I’m hungry” chorus returns.
Wren parents scurry back and forth
to give and give to that sound.
Out the back door near sunset
a multi-species chorus ensues
in a fuss over bath and seed.
We don’t feed them every day.
So they scold us in chirp lingo
from their power line perches.
Avian joys of the suburbs:
free food, roosting places
social network, singing spaces.
Along with the feline threat,
and big glass doors to chime
a bird’s brain from the inside.
Thanks for the songs, feathered ones.
Makes life in the sterile humanity
of the ‘burbs a bit more tolerable
for the naked ones who cannot fly.