One for the birds

There is not a lot I can say about this week's prompt for POetry ThURsdaY. I'm not supposed to! The prompt is to write about something beautiful without naming it. Thing is, from whence I began, so far have I flown. Heehee. I'm getting silly. It's late.

Anyway, I was writing, writing, writing about the beautiful dance the birds were holding in my front yard. So many birds, more than I've ever seen on my lawn. It was amazing. Fast, furious, darting in and out of the trees like drunken sailors, and yes, by my estimation they were all men. So, I wrote the poem. Only to be left a little non-plussed by it. Then, on re-reading, I realized, the longing was reminscent of something from so long ago. The bad boyfriend popped into my head. He didn't deserve even a title on one of my poems, but here it is, nonetheless.

So much for not naming something. Thanks for reading!


How a Flock of Birds Brought Me Back to 21, Cheated On By a State Trooper

The birds are having parties in my trees
when I am not at home.
I caught you robin.
Big, fat harbinger of Spring,
I know for a fact
you and your red-breasted friends do not go South
when the snow flies.
And here you are, wings askew,
orange belly puffed out in pride or testosterone, proving my point.
But what of your cardinal friends?
What about the pretty boys?
Sweet red cowboys.
Don’t see their kind around here too often.
Loud, raucous bold as their bloody feathers.
They dwarf the smooth-crown regulars,
the black-capped chickadees
the house sparrows
and purple finches.
What’s the meaning of this?
What’s the deal with the crowd?
Pulling in my driveway
it looks like a tailgate party
in my front yard.
Wings tipped, breasts bared, feathers ruffled,
tufted titmice scrambling to cover their stiff crowns.
And red-headed wood pecker, is that a lampshade?
Where’s my invitation?
I would like to eat and fly.
After all, I pay the rent.