Wait... And See.

The sky is gray

Some droplets fall

But fail to dampen our spirits

While every wintering bird

Comes to call

Yet in all this wet and gray

The RUBLs remain MIA

So, the Sapsuckers stick

To their chosen trunks, like paper clips

To a magnet

They scoot and tap their way

Up!

Until there is no bark left to inspect

And off they fly, away from my eye

For I can only see to the four corners

Of this small, car window

The Crows approach now

Closer, drawn by our yellow corn and egg bait

But they know something is awry

They want it so much, but

They keep their black-feathered distance

Shuffling, too smart for their own good

Curious and afraid

Eventually their fear takes them

Away!

Cackling and screeching, one to the other

The Blue Jays harass their nemesis birds

Brilliant and red

One moment perched and the next

Diving into the group of eight scarlet crests

Until the ball scatters among the mistle toe shrubs

The jay stands proudly in the center of the shadow

Of his own making

What do I feel for the shuffling doves

As they bob their small, smooth beige heads forward

Their blue spectacled eyes fall onto nothing

But only those things edible

With only one thing in mind,

The Mourning Doves do not flinch

At every sound

Or movement

Like the crows, blackbirds, and jays

Waddling fervently inside their flock they

Peck and pick and prattle and coo

And then, for no apparent reason at all

Up into the tall pecans

They wait

I hear the sinister ‘dee-dee-dee’s

Of the tiny forest punks

Those small, feathered yobs

Remind me of a roving gang of mischievous children

And as their acronym suggests

They are off caching bits of our bait

To ensure

On warmer winter days

Full bellies on the cold, wet grays

Alas, the brown-headed squeaky toys have arrived

In the late morning light

They brighten the wait

Their upturned bills tip downward

Toward the earth

My gaze snaps up
Into the bare branches

As the wet “chup” of the Myrtle Warbler

Pierces the cool air of this old

Pecan grove

From seven on, I did wait

And at eleven ‘o’ eight, the Starlings bold

They see the bait
But no one told

The Rusty Blackbirds, no

They do not show

Where would they be now?

We simply don’t know