Author's Note: Here’s something cheerful that arose from making occasional visits to a friend who at that time lived in Cross Plains, Wisconsin— where the bird population outnumbered the human beings.
Extravaganza at Dave's
The house in this poem is not my house, the red oaks arching over it not my trees— but every time I come here, the birds are glad to see me. They catch me spying on them through the wide window and begin to dance for joy— twirler, skyrocketer, cartwheeler, prima ballerina, star performer in the Cirque de Soleil of June. Shirttail cousins, that’s what they are— related but distant, separable— each troupe rehearsing its own routines and attitudes. I watch them dive, then flutterup and catapult for a sunflower seed—maintaining the careful pecking order, the given choreography. Through the screen, I hear the massed chorale of the entire ensemble: cardinal, jay, woodpecker, jay, robin, junco, bunting, jay, jay, jay.
©2020 Marilyn Taylor
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