Wrens on Neptune

Poem by Gabe Aprati

They scatter and hide

when we show up.

They may be small,

but they’re hardly stupid —  

they know all too well

what we’ve done to our own birds.

I mean, where can you find

a Columbian grebe, or a dodo, or a

South Island snipe these days?

Good luck with that.

Some say these wrens did a deal

with Neptune, a long time ago —

they swore to flap their wings

and fan him dry when he comes up for air,

and he would stop drenching their nests

with storms and waterspouts.

But I don’t buy it.

Why would they deal with a giant Roman

who always carries a big spear?

Okay, so he calls it a trident —

but we all know it’s really a skewer.

And any god that’s got

14 moons to play around with

shouldn’t be trusted.

I guess it’s just all too much

for me to figure.

Maybe I should be glad

when somebody calls me a bird brain?

Seems the wrens on Neptune

are doing pretty darn good,

even 8 planets away.