There in the middle of the road or street
Or what do you call it
Neither a country road nor a city street
The blacktop above the cul-de-sac
A fledgling lorn and stoical
In the morning sun before the sun
Had really begun to pound its anvil
I say fledgling it had feathers
But it could not fly
Else it would have flown
From its death on the scorching pavement
It bore the mottled fluff of a chick
But pinions fully formed
But tail feathers none at all
And on its wings I saw the white band
Like unto that on the wings of certain songbirds
Seen only when they take flight
Cherished for their improvisations
And I addressed the little displaced person
Are you a mockingbird
And Let’s at least get you out of the sun
For I believed then as I still believe
That the parents lacked the means
To return their child to the nest
And I cupped my hands on either side
And it peeped in alarm like any chick
Eluded my grasp however tender and ran up the gutter
Into the nearest lawn wet with dew
But still in the light of the sun
Though there was shade on every hand
And so I considered a second attempt
To give the little victim
A more comfortable death
Though sun is probably quicker than inanition
Come to think of it
To say nothing of predation
From crow raptor or fiery ants
Themselves concerned for self and progeny
When a pair of mockingbirds
From the utility line above
Buzzed me like biplanes
At the Arab encampment
In Lawrence of Arabia
And so I high-tailed it
I’ve been attacked by birds before
While hanging laundry on the line
Nonconformist ecologically superior
That salubrious stretching activity
Of fresh air and viper thoughts
For that task itself requires a little thought
But not enough to keep the mind
From drifting into grievance
There to rehearse devastating rejoinders
To put in their place those who have done one wrong
But a walk in the suburb
Before the sun beats with his fury
Requires virtually no thought at all
Of a more sapient homo erectus
The rolling gait of one overweight
Establishing the rhythmic sway
Conducive to consideration
Of the next poem or song or lecture deep
And while I hung the jeans and brassieres
A phoebe as I later learned its common name to be
Beat its wings against my face
Though mercifully reserved its claws
And when I returned to fetch the laundry now dry
Perched gloweringly on the lawn furniture
And for days took up various posts
On fence branch or side mirror
So now the avian cadre
Redoubled its attack
Upon one who means well but
And I don’t know what comes after the but
Instinct I guess
The same that makes us primates so sociable
Worry so relentlessly about how we’re coming off
And when I had completed my circuitous route
I saw no fledgling on lawn or street
And a single mockingbird
Mounted from one utility line
To slightly higher one