Bird Watching

A door blew open last
autumn and let
a nesting of motley foliage
build thick and curl
along a wall,
all mortared with the rain.

Among the waterlogged
were leaves,
broken twigs,
and the ochre beadwork
of the oaks along the drive.

Dashed and wet, a warbler
sat alert
atop the mass and
I watched

the silent
minstrel shake
and pucker from the cold,
ever preening the delicate yellow
back from where it had been blown.

As the bird settled into the heap,
I left it alone
and took inside with me
the memory of the fellow.

I wrote this last semester. Seeing all of the oaks' sheddings along the sidewalks today made me feel that it was an appropriate time to include it.