When a blue jay or cardinal flits to our feeder,
no matter how raspy or shrill,
if it’s lollipop-bright, a bodacious damn breeder,
it gives you a thrill.
Any goldfinch or oriole leaves you near-speechless:
“Hey–honey–oh, wow–that’s so–cool!”
While I silently note that at least the thing’s screechless,
you practically drool.
So it goes with each tanager, grosbeak or hummer,
but never a sparrow or wren,
as you make it quite clear that a bird is a bummer
unless it’s a 10.
“See that small, subtle brown one,” I say, “just like grasses
at dawn on a patch of fall ground?”
and you smile . . . but the moment a hotter one passes,
your head snaps around.
OK, fine–ogle breasts and pert tails splashed with color
in brassy and obvious form,
but remember: a mate who looks just a bit duller
still keeps the nest warm.