By Glen Sorestad
As we near one of the crescent condos, the black racket
grows in intensity. Since it’s Sunday morning, I am
inclined to think it a crow-devised invocation, akin
to the urgent clamor of a church bell, though crows
have a wary intelligence that may well preclude
theological considerations. We watch more crows
passing overhead, their singular focus the same rooftop,
same apparent purpose, and as we near, we see them
Homing in like pigeons to an apartment-top cote.
We count twenty-five, a murder of crows, indeed.
The summoned corvid mob strut back and forth
atop the shingled pitch of the dwelling, shouting
what sound like imprecations at someone, though
the source of agitation or distress is not apparent.
I begin to see these coal-feathered declaimers as
parliamentarians, voicing their constituent concerns
to the head of state in daily question period, before
lifting off and returning from whence they came,
to resume the more germane consideration of feeding
fledglings with more nutrition than politics.
The way morning sun splashes
pond reeds with light and pries
into the dense bulrushes, as if
to probe their depths, tells me
this is a good day to stop,
just stand here and be alert.
The Sora is a shy bird, a wader
of marshy shorelines, smaller
and rounder than a robin.
I do not wait long
before a slight flickering
near the base of the reeds
signals its presence as it
scampers and scurries,
back and forth, feeding
on whatever delicacies Soras
find in the pond shallows.
Dart and bend, repeat –
its modus operandi.
There for the briefest of moments.
A lone Waxwing is perched on an upper arm
of the small green ash. I stop. Drab grey
is usually uninviting, but early sun-slants
can enliven even the muted slate tones.
A jaunty Blue Jay arrives, picks a seat
on the same ash, a few feet from the other
and begins to prattle, as jays will,
with neither provocation nor invitation.
Whatever the jay may ask or demand,
the waxwing remains mum, while the jay
flits, branch to branch, seeking, but not finding;
interrogating, but receiving no confession.
Frustrated by its companion’s unwillingness
to divulge a single morsel of useful news,
the jay utters a few derogatory squawks,
flaps off to find more receptive listeners.
About the Author:
Glen Sorestad is a well known poet from Saskatoon whose poems have appeared all over North America and many other parts of the world. His poetry has appeared in over 60 anthologies and textbooks and have been translated into eight languages. His latest poetry book was jointly authored with Jim Harris; Water and Rock appeared this year from LCM Press in New Mexico.