Covid days
Of window watching.
Spying on the
Bright, loud feathers
Flitting at ease
Uncautious abandon.
Clear, shrill chirps
Birdly Antakshari
Echoing in the fresh, crisp,
Unfettered air.
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*Antakshari (un-taak-sha-ree) is a game of singing songs where the verse/word/letter/sound you end your song off with is the word the next person starts with.
Spring’s feathered herald
pecks furtively at the frozen’d ground
urging worms far nestled below
who refuse to venture out
and greet the bitter rain.
His red-dulled breast
heavy-drenched
with water disguised as ice.
II
She found last night
among the howling winds
that her chickling
had become an egg once more
curled into a downy, frail ball
yet no more warm
now more silent than ever.
III
Two quivering robins
huddle over their branch-bare nest
their warbles lost in the pelting hail
not a peep escapes from their hatchlings.
2012
intotheindigo 