Avian Spring

The soft haunting melancholy of the
owl's call sifts through the spring night
from the forest to my home and I know
it has returned to nest nearby, a ritual of
spring's renewal blueprint. In the morning
the song of the cardinal sweetens my
awakening, drifting through my drowsy
head informing me that dawn has broken.
Now the robins that peck disconsolately
on the fall-ripened, winter-shrivelled
berries of the Sargenti crab can find
infinitely more suitable grubs in the
warming soil of my garden. A pair of
plump song sparrows disport themselves
among the seeds and breadcrumbs on
my porch, their gratitude evinced in a
transporting lilt of musical perfection.
When they leave, the crows will appear
nervously aware their presence displeases
most, but not me, for their polite caution
bespeaks uncertainty yet entitlement. In
the forest the pileated woodpecker gets
on with the vital task of identifying those
trees hosting guests inimical to the
existence of their hosts, and nuthatches
and chickadees flit about the still-bare
branches of the forest's deciduous trees
the whistle of a hawk coasting on the
wind above the tree canopy, distracting
and warning the tiny furred creatures
below. This evening, when I wend my
weary way to bed I'll glance outside to
see the nighthawk settled down to sleep.