Easter in Birdland

Mr. Yard Bird…

cognac reed soaked up tight

hangs on from some silver wire

then glides off

pregnant with another fantastic egg

and all the day long

sporting some improbable floppy hat

unattached to his head,

bopping…

soaring…

raindrops drip from my St. Lucie roof

while I, ensconced so perfectly,

reflect on another hip image of the world,

and after the shower

abducted by a bed of drenched Pascua daisies and sunflowers,

a family of butterflies deliriously drink deeply from within

meanwhile, somewhere some soggy park bench rests,

blessed again by Mother Oak,

enduringly waits for the sun

while we children innocently sniff at Yardbird’s fleeting bop bubbles,

unbroken bones

made obsolete by each exact moment’s loss

and so too a hovering polar baby bird

enchanted every second by her fledgling life,

carries on

the breath’s improvised

extraordinary flight for freedom

4/1/18

Easter Sunday