That bird!
What’s that bird?
We’re partially listening
to our new neighbor
go on about the shallow
septic field, when a blast
of staccato trills,
ruffles the air in a tall
sycamore above
our heads.
We stop talking.
Listen upward.
The neighbor, whose
name is Jim, talks
loud and the
bird talks back
louder still.
Every time Jim
sets off on a new
stream of consciousness
flash flood of facts
the intensity
ripples and
mounts to
a shriek which
ceases only when he
pauses.
As he leads us
away from the tree
to the edge
of the leach field
(that we take his word
exists under
our feet),
he says
mockingbird
it’s a mockingbird
his pace quickens
to the culvert where
the run off
used to flow
in the old days
they’ll sure enough
mock ya
not called mockingbird
for nothin.
Early Morning Poems 