BIRD SONG

 

 "Kill two birds with one stone.”

I’d sure like to flip the bird

to whomever thought of that one.

Do you suppose he–or she–

ate eggs for breakfast that morning?

A gift of nourishment from a

non-violent feathered friend.

 

Maybe it rained that day

and they donned a shiny blue raincoat

that made the drops fall like

water shedding off a duck’s back.

I’m no duck, but I prize my feathers

plain though they be,

and preen from time to time

though I’m no vain peacock.

 

I’m mostly gray, but

I wish my feathers were

white as snow,

yellow as the sun,

red as love, green as grass,

blue as the sky.

Sprinkles of color, like

wildflowers growing without a border.

 

At times, I’ve wished I had sleek black feathers,

elegant and important like the quill pen

that wrote the Declaration of Independence.

I’d have settled for black feathers

tipped with white; a feather duster

cleaning books and all the precious collectibles

gathered over years of travel and

searching for just the right thing,

the perfect accent on a table or mantel.

 

Or pink feathers to make a boa resting seductively,

light as a feather draped around a graceful

swan-like neck yearning to be kissed.

 

Once I dreamed of gifting

my feathers to a Native American chief:

Tecumseh, Sitting Bull, Tonto,

doesn’t matter.

Wild West movies with a warrior wearing

a war bonnet made from my feathers!

Each one a gift to signify an act of bravery.

 

What an honor to adorn the head of a warrior

instead of being one of thousands of feathers

stuffed inside a down comforter.

Lost in the fluff,

of no singular importance

other than naming a fabric softener.

 

Who am I, you ask?

I’ll give you some clues:

I’ve got a bird brain and bird legs.

Steve Miller can fly like an eagle

but yo no can do. I’m too old

to fly great distances.

 

From my perch in the tree

I’ve got a bird's-eye view

and one of me in the hand is

certainly worth two in the bush.

People sing a song and listen to me,

Harper Lee and Gregory Peck

immortalized me.

 

I’m a mocking bird

crazy as a loon,

wise as an owl

no harm, no fowl.

Birds of a feather stick together.

So, I think I’ll cross the road now

just like…well…you-know-who.

 

 

~ Leslie Bratspis

April 16, 2021