Woodstock, July 2019

What wren? What finch? what dove?
All the deer are stoned on lily blossoms
And the snakes take to the pools
At Opus 40,
Black sticks on the day-glo green.
Heat drives gnats to the shadows and
The pines slowly
                             ooze their
                                              ant trapping
                                                                   sap.

Little blonde heads break the turquoise plane.
The circus balls slowly perambulate the edge.
Ice tinkles; mothers laugh,
Daddydaddy floats regal
among splashing grandchildren,
noodles at head and foot.
The mountains lean in to see.

Seven
           Not three
                           Days of peace and love.

                                                                    for the Armstrongs

Birder

Behold the ortelan!
Caged and blinded from hatchling days
Force fed until your shit is haute cuisine.
Finally, mercifully, drowned in Armagnac
and served to the elite beneath their cap of shame.
Eaten from feet to beak.

You are no eagle, no hawk, no falcon.
At best, you may rise to the status of finches.
Be fast and sharp, like hummingbirds;
Be loud and black and proud like crows.
Be as persistent as woodpecker and
flock together for protection like sparrows.
Be as bright as cardinals and sing like nightingales.

For the birders are on the hunt
for the next innocent bird.