The News

April, early morning, birds have the microphone –
the squawk box in full dither – I scan up and down 
the sundial sniffing for signal with my beak
as if some frequency of light and shadow on my face
will clear the static.

The Byrds – classic rock, no,
"First known use of 'chugalug' was in 1945" – talk radio, no,
A woodpecker's twhack knocks on my bones:
"Hey old man, I'm tawking to you!"
and each tap bends another creaking nail,

Filches in the bark of my tired muscles for grubs or honey
or whatever leaves me flightless and famished 
in my walk down this dirt road every morning,
octets of birds and peepers a Met Opera 
broadcasting Tosca on public radio,

Those strings of my father's Puccini and Verdi 
lifted from vinyl and woven into nests that spiral outward, 
my mother belting "Praise the lord, and pass the ammunition!"
waking us with her birdshot voice – 
are those notes or holes in the sky?

Sun comes on the loudspeaker, it must be recess.
I hear you say "hey" and finally I'm here, present,
your hand, feathered in mine.
A quiet settles in.
I get the news.

The Sunday Muse

13 thoughts on “The News

  1. There are a lot of twists and turns to this listening done here, a lot of nuance, from past and from the deep inside of experience. That third stanza is just sharp as a bone awl, and it only gets stronger from there. Your last lines switching effortlessly to comfort and peace after all the twittering and shouting are especially effective.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. So much to love in this. Most mornings when school is in I can hear a teacher yammering over the megaphone. I shall call him a crow from now on. He is dialing too much into my morning. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  3. A wonderfully birdy poem. I loved the reference to your mother singing in the morning. My kids remember being awakened by my singing when they were young.

    Liked by 1 person

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