I’m standing at the kitchen door. the saltwater waves of cicada song have lulled overnight into a steady grackle gurgle. the air is cool now. I look for birds but the leaves are unyielding. the branches are stubborn. he picks this moment to reappear. he struts on lanky legs. he flicks cigarette ash with a flutter of his glossy wing. I tell the indian that he looks ridiculous — he is too pompous, too iridescent. his laugh chatters like a rusty gate. he hops up to the deck, to the chair. he looks at me with a golden eye.


the indian preens.



4 thoughts on “grackles

  1. I love this! I’m a big fan of birds and have written a number of poems about them myself. There are so many great ways to evoke them, and you have caught all the sensory elements. I really like the rusty gate reference.



    1. angie werren says:

      thanks, kat!

      my “indian” is something i’ve been toying with. haven’t quite figured him out yet, but he pops up occasionally… 😀



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