THE ORDINARY
You may not remember
their proper names, but
in cool shade after adding
sweat and water to
seasons of the same soil,
you learn the talk of little birds
on oaks trees grazing
upside down – busy phoebes
feeding a nest of bugs, rock
wrens working at your feet
or the plain brown birds
preening in the garden shower.
None majestic – no fierce-some
standard legions muster ‘round –
yet hawks and ravens find
this “no fly-zone” enforced
by vigilant red-wing fighter pilots
and western flycatchers spurring
eight-second rides over treetops.
Nondescript and overlooked,
frail puffs of feathers most
big birds learn to respect.
_______________________________________________
Poem notes:
6/3: This piece has undergone major edits each morning since posted, including a title change. I’m still not terribly pleased with it, though I still like the conceit and its application beyond the garden.