The catbird fanned his tail in May
the way a man strums his half-tuned guitar,
string by string. Then he began to sing
his song of songs: borrowed notes,
phrases lifted from the public domain.
Thank no one. Pay no one.
Soon she came fluttering to the wire,
slender and gray.
In May you cut your winter-long hair outside,
silver trimmings on the wind.
The catbirds made their selection,
lining their tinseled nest.
Eggs appeared, a sensible two.
Just two. And the singing ceased
in favor of secrecy, stealthy
comings and goings in the honeysuckle hedge.
Why do we regard all this as instinct?
As opposed to what? Reason?
Why did we have children?
Because I suddenly wanted to.
That was our reason.
One day you came through the open summer door.
“Something terrible has happened.”
You had found a half-fledged chick
drowned in the rain barrel
and pulled it out with a clothespin.
A few days later the other lay near the driveway,
its tiny beak swarming with ants.
That’s business. That’s capitalism.
And from the center of the hedge
the mother called to them all day,
and again all day, and again.
I listened as I pollinated squash blossoms
with a watercolor brush.
Where were the bees this year?
She sang in a minor key,
and I took it personally. Sometimes love
seems just another word for work.
But we can’t let that stop us.
That same summer weddings came to pass,
and divorces. Homes stood empty.
The chances were never quite fifty-fifty.
But for scavengers the odds were better.