Sunday, February 26, 2017

BIRD WATCHER

The dog’s in the garage—
a fallen all-star from my squad
who broke free from this world of meat
to lick the face of God.
I’m going bird watching
as soon as I’m done graving.
I’m grabbing those binoculars
that cost me all my savings.
Deep into the forest, now,
I’ve worn holes into my socks.
But still, ahead’s where I must plow,
clutching my trusty binocs.
It’s raining cats and dogs outside
and outside’s where I’m at.
I wish I had some kind of roof
to block the dogs and cats.
Why did I come thwacking
through the misty woods this eve?
I wonder as I slip and fall
upon the winter leaves. 
Then lightning strike a tree nearby
and, fearing death, I shriek.
But there, in the electric sky
I see a robin’s beak!
I mark it in my Sibley
pump my fist and take a shot,
and try to do it glibly
but I scream: “IT’S ALL I’VE GOT!”
I wish that I could clarify
but I can’t find the words.
It’s just so great to be out here
with me.
Me and my birds. 

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