Realpolitik

The sun at 80, April,
And I’m getting groove again
With outside repairs:
A gable end where old squirrels
Gnawed a way for birds to sing
Inside my bedroom wall.
Invariably the fledglings trill
Their mom’s return
To feed and preen and multiply
My space with such chatter
That preempts any blog
On Poetry, Politics, Love–
Preempts my blessed Word, by god!
These mocking chirps of fertility
They’d seem to lord them over me
Versus my arid room.  Well, fine,
Maybe in a tree somewhere
But a lesson way too close today, a lesson
Way too late…and so, Birds,
You’ve forced the hand
With which I snip wire
By wire by wire the screen
(I’ve already measured)
And from atop my ladder check
The long mesh triangle for perfect fit.
It is, I nail.  And nail to rule.
And do.  By dawn a starving
Quiet chastens all.  I search
To hear them, somewhere,
Somewhere, in the woods. 

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