(from the Early Bird napowrimo prompt: write a poem about your favorite bird.)
If there is a bird that darts,
flits and fros, zigs, pops, jumps,
or appears ink-drop on white linen,
around the trunk and on wobbling limb,
it is the period-on-a-page
Black-capped Chickadee.
I see him in his industry, flitting
from twig to feeder—over
their entire world non-stop—
a Saturday market of popping
peppercorn people, the zip and vigor
of their portly selves.
I look at them from my now glassed-in
back porch as the dark clouds roil overhead
and think, “No, they
will never stay still, never get in from
the storm. That would be
unbelievable. Inconceivable.”