By Richard R. Cuyler, Salida, Colorado
March and Mountain Bluebirds and nest boxes
with last year’s residue of white and down
and grass. I open one and she commands
the other, the cocked head saying it’s her own.
Her rift of blue infuses all her ashen
gray with style. The first house scraped and cleaned
and bleached, I move so slowly towards her. She loops
up to the one I’ve finished, feathers preened
in pride of ownership. I look away,
then they are two, picture quiet, side
by side, he like some fulgent bragging blue
extravagance to fascinate a bride.
[InContentAdTwo]
I clean and glance and they have left, but they
approved this servant’s caring. Spring will be
a promised fledgling blue. But never is.
Do they tell Tree Swallows, warranty
their house inspections? And the Violet-greens
must heed the gossip, how this nesting site
is wonderful. The Bluebirds do not bid.
I need their beauty always. It’s not right.
