NOTE: My classmate, Mary Lou Meyers, penned a lovely poem about birds that I am posting this week, because as caretakers of Mother Earth, we must take care of all animals, including birds, to make sure their habitats are safe and not bulldozed or poisoned. So this will post on my Home Page, under Poems, and also in Earth Day Every Day. She wrote it last Friday, when summer weather was upon us, if only for one day. I Googled birds of the Northeast and found some photos on the Internet. The peacock photo is not from my Google search (no website given). Source for other birds: wildbirds.com.
Thanx, Mary Lou!
The birds this morning defy description:
the trilling, the thrilling of Winter bones still chilling;
their haunting repertoire comes unannounced,
denounced by some late sleepers;
taking on the distinct disguise of the woods beyond,
not meant for Human eyes.
What virtue unbidden is hidden there,
defining their substantive embrace of Nature’s Interface
groomed feathers from the emerging leaves
a stroke of their good fortune
to make the most of a day bursting forth.
Tossing and turning in the sudden Summer heat,
the birds unleashed after Winter’s prolonged meditations,
taken by surprise from branches extended like sticks
to leafy flutterings with new enterprise.
Without an acknowledged tree
where would these indicators of frivolity be
or is it lament for a world not pre-arranged
for birds to be content with limbs extended
but with seeds made ready at every feeder
as the lady cardinal reminded mother
begging at her front steps until she recognized
a usurper-me, and left me discontent
without the armament of a survivor.
What if I was extolled by their beauty and finesse,
or appalled by the lack of it?
Does it really matter in the world of Nature,
when all we do is undermine not define gratitude.
A peacock sets itself apart from other birds,
it has neither heart nor triviality
to join in such conviviality,
but an eventual strategy to get the best
in a platform of accountability wherever it may be;
a reminder of how stark the human soul
is without the rare plumage to cover nakedness,
yet we try to make up for it by prolonged indications of songs
with only words to carry us along like a burden of proof.
We had a peacock in our yard submerged once
in a deluge of rain, who finally found a shelter,
then with the sun arising, an appropriate spot
on top of our shed to hold forth looking like a talking statue,
looking down on the Survivors of the Human Race.
Plain and adulterated at times, shame-faced for our lack of grace.