After a spring rainstorm strikes and strafes
early pink crocuses and tulip shoots,
the black phoebe ventures out
during the last raindrops.
Here the phoebe sits, content.
Short, petite, and sweet,
she flicks her tail to keep her balance when
gray pigeons land to perch
on the same high utility wire.
The bird is like a slim, single half-sheet note, written
by a pretty, pert girl who would rather be dancing,
This phoebe misses the warm winter
she spent in Mexico
but is poised—like hope—among
the portly pigeon matrons.
That hope may find a harbor when the rain
collects in puddling pools,
and mosquitoes soon join in,
providing food for any hungry bird.
Those pigeons seem quite idle
but pre-occupied, genteel,
all huddled in a patient train of thought.
The phoebe, gypsy Carmen of the lot, chirps
occasionally, flirtatiously to see if any likely mate
may come into view. It may not happen today,
but she would prefer the male to call to her
anyway, on a blossom-studded morning
without pigeon chaperones around her.
She has faith he will show up,
and even the pigeons coo encouragement.
