Yesterday, birds found their way under the netting,
beaked off most of the strawberries.
The birds’ gift—next summer more wild
strawberry plants scrambling over the back lot.
Small jewels tasting like stale crackers,
barely a hint of the piquant red-sugar
of the big beauties the birds have stolen.
5 o’clock, deep in sleep on the deck,
I’m awakened by birdsong—a chorus
of robins, tanagers, Oregon juncos,
and tiny blue-feathered somethings—
warbling, trilling, twittering.
Not quite harmony.
Snatches of random tunes—
a snippet of “Little Liza Jane,”
now a bit of “Freight Train,”
now something like a hymn:
“May the Circle be Un-
now a dueling din of chirrups,
tweedles, and tweets.
I rouse myself and pad through the damp grass
to the berry patch to pick a few leftovers
for breakfast before the choristers finish
their encore and beat me to them. This dewy
dawn light brings out truest colors—
leaves, strawberries, yellow-ribbon snake,
three small blue feathers.
Pearly sky, morning star, wisp of waning moon.
I imagine the warblers’ berry-colored repertoire
includes tunes about star, moon, and strawberries—
yesterday’s and tomorrow’s.
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