Spring Song

I am watching the birds through the window.
I know all their names, the easy ones –
chickadee, sparrow, blue jay, junco, goldfinch,
nuthatch, woodpecker, geese in the distance,
a mallard pair, crows that flap, ravens that soar,
the warbling calls of the cranes coming home,
the throaty trill of the red-winged blackbird singing
conk-la-ree from the cattail marsh by the creek –
these are my companions on a lonely Saturday.
Did I say lonely? I probably meant quiet, relaxing.
I don’t like the starlings, but who really does,
does that make me prejudiced, or just discerning?
Still, I wish you were here beside me on the couch
so we could watch the birds together and laugh
at the chickadees who keep in constant motion
and never, ever lose their little black caps.
You would make a nest for your head
on the broken twig of my collarbone and
I would whistle my spring song softly in your ear.



About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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