|If ever there were words for birds
These come as some surprise, distressed,
Days on end, routine as a tide.
As awful as a fish who’s drowned.
Disturbed as though atomized.
In order to listen better, longer.
A not-all-that-well-recorded loop.
That’s the sound of dying birds.
Revised it’s the sound of birds
Coming out of weatherproof speakers
In a weatherproof box.
From somewhere deep near the bluegray trunk
Down spun magnolia’s glazed greenblack leaves.
An awful anxious clattering of fractured calls.
The sounds of dying birds.
Manufactured to scare away other birds.
Calibrated to keep other birds away.
To keep a tree bird-free.
To scare birds away from a birdproof tree.
I am President George W. Bush and I approve