For the love of a bird watcher

For the love of a bird watcher I listen to warbles & count wood-pecker’s Morris-Code-clicks trying to make out their mumbled sweet nothings. I can hear that tinsel and mirror that flickers in his pupils.

For the love of a bird watcher I think about migrating south for the winter to Florida in a V-shaped pattern I make out of scarves when I leave the door unlocked in  the morning.

For the love of a bird watcher I use my pen as binoculars. Count everyone’s goose feathers and they molt– For the love of a bird watcher I perch in my desk like a blue bird (not a blue jay) and wait to be seen like a smudged pastel drawing of the skyline.

For the love of a bird watcher I jot down everyone’s calls, their lamenting songs, their forced chirps, and the rate of their wing beats resonating in my irises.

For the love of a bird watcher I use his fingers and cloud-wandering visage as a compass and wait for my Latin name

Amica mea