Everything avian

I watch them from shelter, this glass so
wide, protects me from the
virus seeping, through porous molecules,
the cough in air, but the robins are
there building a nest with twig and
grass and grit they perceive how I listen
to song, this melodic thrush brings
everything avian into the haunting. Then
comes amusement when the chortle fills
the air, this bird so common for all to see
is bemused when I mis-identify as
he flies- the sky brings confusion to
this human eye.

The edge of my memory, so
long in writing is so short
when read, just flitting, 
flitting by like the house wren in
my garden, taking time to scold
then seeing to this business of
life, each babe waiting for a juicy
morsel, and this is why we need
insects, to let the babies eat. Alas
the potato beetles are eating my
plants as I walk along the row,
squishing until my gloves are
stained red- this is a sadistic
pleasure. Wren, wren where are
you when I need you? Gallivanting
it seems.

Out on the dike at Nayanquing
Point there is a hootamaganzy diving,
the dip and the rising like
a bowling pin downed in the
alley - I have a love for the name,
merganser of these inland seas. Make
a fool of me when I confuse you
as the breeze lifts your feathers,
making me believe you are
unusual. But no, just casual as ever
it seems. For some things we
can agree on, the strawberry
is better when it drips, the corn
picked and then into boiling water,
yes this is how it is supposed to
taste. And when the world is
larger than you want it to be,
and people let anger disperse,
I will take my cue from the people
who could fly, fly away to the
land of make believe, since it is
a land where kindness rules and
birds are flying everywhere.