Mynah's local 143
Birdsquawk. Five o'clock—
quitting time—& they're raisin'
a ruckus, headed to roosts, cawks
shiny like combs, bowing, fluffing:
there's some gossip from this branch.
Think about a juicy blood
worm, maybe a live cricket as
they glide home. Generally,
it's birds or meal. Exhausted, most
leave quietly, their yellow beaks
tipped downward, beaten by
the day's events: dodging
that hawk, playing/teasing
creeping cats, updrafting
before they pounce, dive
bombing their families.
Some days it's hard being
alive, harder still to remain
aloft; but most days, they
wouldn't have it (union
dues notwithstanding)
any other way.
Robert Rinehart
After five decades employed as an academic, Robert Rinehart has returned to fiction and poetry. Recent work is published or forthcoming in North Dakota Quarterly, the Queen's Review, Syncopation, and others. He lives with his partner in Raglan, Aotearoa New Zealand, and occasionally feeds the stray cat that wanders through the house. robert-rinehart.com
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