Life’s line-up is delusional – on a skewer.

When the “ONE” step aside the number’s fewer;

But the adult male Goose doesn’t think like a ruler.

The goslings, exposed, create a fierce maneuver.

To the adult Geese those small goslings are LUNAR.

The line-up doesn’t mean squat to a sincere user.

It’s what’s in the heart that counts — a fact none truer.


(And the Goose honks its displeasure at human interference.)




THE TEA PARTY (building a nest)

“I’M LATE; I’M LATE, for a very important date…”

The colored tatters of his jacket rippled in the wind.


She grabbed hold of his arm.


“Wait.  Take a deep breath.  In. Out.”

…And the Starling flew up underneath the roof’s ledge edge, disappearing into the hole.

“Wait.  Breath.”

The Starling slipped in an out of that hole several times that day.

(Starlings wear a tattered gold vest underneath the black feathers.)


I wonder where the Mad Hatter left his chapeau. 

Listening Is Almost A Physical Exercise

Within the crowded tree limbs I heard the Blue Jay’s dirge.

Concerned, I yearned to console, but where [there] was the perch? 

In the mornings, a multitude of birds warble –

like gathering elusive jewels, a garble bauble.

BUMP, Thump, jump, a bird’s beak is like a hammer

on my windowsill, assertive consuming manner.

Rain and warmth encourages flowers to blossom

And birds respond in kind, a chitchat so wanton.


At dusk this coastline’s quiet; there’s a lull.

We sat on a flat rock – pretense, beach hut!

While we ate, there’s a crash, angels from above.

They’re hovering, fluttering, white Seagulls.

They fill the air; they want food – WHEEDLE!


… except for the one gull who walked back and forth

in front of the of the crowd, beak bent,

barking nonstop, almost regal.


Him I feed.

Pick up!


“…Remember: two wrongs don’t make a right.  It takes two wrongs, a shin kick, and a prank phone call. (Maxine)”


As the careless youth dropped crumbs the Crow ate ‘em;

…Pink Panther Logos on the white truck.

Gray Mockingbird perched up high, diadem –

Hissing at the Crow whose plumb out of luck,

chased from the nest, the Mockingbird’s helm.

The Crow cawed, complained, what a schmuck –

Proud puny Mockingbird went home — nest, its stem —

as the Crow ate those crumbs beneath that truck.


…Beautiful Bower Bird builds a bed, birthing center, a nest woven from long grass and sticks, an opening like a vulva – green leaves, food, a cape laid down to entice the female bower bird into her bower,  private curtains hung so to speak…

— Like living on a small island in the middle of the sea, “it may not be much of a kingdom, but show me one with a bigger moat

I like it when the Bower Bird lays down the blue flowers, welcome home my lady.



Sharing Space

Corner of the eye, fine point, “stylus” –

I saw bird shadows, wings, feathered mileage,

flying up to the roof’s corner, the edge.

Why are the Starlings dancing on my ledge?

Shuffling through this House of Cards,

I found the small hole, a discrete hiding

They’re building a nest, Yippee, Hooray!

A Starling yanked at the grass, a shyness

in its movements as it carries

“thread” in its beak back

to the hole to build the nest.

Sounds of Silence;

Otherwise they’ll leave.

So I remain mute

In my ecstasy