What the season will

Birdsong

All the sorties come to naught, the countless
forays for food and comfort fly off with dark
wings into the cruel morning sun. The crow’s
reconnaissance is commendable, its cunning
admirable, the patience painstaking. To take
up position in the early maraud of spring, to
observe the robins coming and going, the giving
away of the featherless hatchling in their nest,
is both worthy of regard and a given dread.



The naked thing flies now, for the first and only
time of its brief life in a dry blue sky. The nest
abandoned, perhaps they will try again, though
it’s not likely. From everywhere, birdsong, the
thick chuffing of industry and continuance that
does not pause to mourn another stolen chick
catching sun in the beak of a black mother deep
in her own sortie delivering what the season will.

Joseph Gallo
April 19, 2013