Friday, November 29, 2013

November Poem-A-Day 28


Is he the new generation?
He seems smaller than his predecessor.
And alone. Where’s his brown perky mate?
It’s two years since the last
invasion of my sentimental self. How
distracted I could be by a sudden appearance.
I never could find, though,
any feathers of that particular blue, from azure
sleeveless vests to be worn only for special occasions.

We call him Superb and Fairy wren.
I watch him emerge from the geranium creepers
check out the decking and patio, apparently
always conscious of being “admirably fine and
excellent” even as his wiry legs begin their
jerky leaps in pursuit of ethereal insects.

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