A Love Affair with Birds

Birds love us—they fly to feeder

by species, daily, and in droves.

They visit the deck rail whene’er

we put out fruit, nuts, bread, whatnot.

They do leave behind their droppings

on the deck and patio, yet . . .

mostly on the cars parked beneath

the crepe myrtles leaning over 

the drive.  So they love our trees, too,

where they roost, breed, and serenade.

We put up with their mess, I guess,

because we have no other choice

if we want to enjoy their charms

while I do penance for the one

I killed as a kid with BB’s

fired from a Daisy air rifle

then tried to revive by blowing

air through its mouth to tiny lungs.

I failed, and from that failure there

evolved a love affair with birds.

I did bury the bird I failed

in a rite, fit for our kinship.

Not that my childhood contrition

made a difference to the dead—

fifty in all, afore I came 

to any sense of compassion.