janet powers

Birds of August

Waking early, I savor the sound
of late August roiling the dawn:
birds twittering in the corridor
of tall trees beyond my house.
Again at dusk they settle in,
uulating in great crescendo
followed by calm, then rising,
pianissimo at first, now bursting 
into full choir, rejoicing  
under one baton. Surely this
is not what Chaucer meant
by his Parlement of Fowles,
which limns the chattering jays
of his own kind. What I’m 
listening to is music, jubilant
inspiration for massed voices!
In this avian ode to joy I hear
an oratorio: a feathered soloist
multiplied four hundredfold,
praise song uncaged, full out
for this season and this time.

Robins in the Snow

They look so forlorn drinking
at the pool where the sump pump
drains, the only unfrozen water
in the neighborhood, mecca for
thirsty squirrels and dry-beaked birds.
Snow slanting down heaps higher
banks and yards already foot-deep
in weeks-old white stuff,
though it’s March and longer days
should melt and shave the drifts.
It’s surely been a long winter
for all of us, stoically 
donning long underwear
against the cold, shoveling
the same walks again, then again,
buying endless bags of seed
to feed sparrows and finches.
But robins don’t eat seeds
and every worm around lies deep
in frozen ground, suspended
still in winter animation.
Dull from cold and lacking food,
robins cluster in the snow
daring to suspect or even fear
that spring may not come
in the usual way this year 
if it promises to come at all.