The Boss-of-my-Garden
The blackbird Boss-of-my-Garden is gone
A thief came in the night
and not knowing, I strolled out into my morning garden
the dew already burnt off the grass
and there he was
his corpse bloodied
his death by cat torture revealed
flies already settling by his yellow beak
his glossy black feathers
spat out around the lawn.
And nearby two other bodies
I check the nest and it is empty,
up-ended and now I see it all
the cat, the nest and his desperation
to defend his chicks
ended here.
No more to perch
on my little crab apple tree,
head cocked, worm in beak
ready to dive into the ivy, to the hidden nest.
Or to jump into the bird bath
fluttering his wings, his ablutions a daily ritual.
Or, as I once saw, to chase
the wood pigeon three times his size,
from his tiny lawn territory.
Your brown mate pecks around,
round and round she goes, without purpose
not knowing what else to do, where to go.
You are gone, gone, gone
and my garden feels your absence
and mourns.
AM
May 30th 2009
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