In the woods I hear a high, thin melody, and there is a jiggle of leaves. A White-throated Sparrow flits into view for a moment, vivid and elusive as a dream you reach out for as you wake up…but you only catch its disappearing. ~ Diane Porter
An avian Gene Krupa hammers telephone pole.
His ice pick beak stabs, transforms soft pine
into woody swiss cheese.
Yapping dogs leap, interrupt his delving.
With a flash of herringbone feathers, he flutters
into oak forest, disappears among sparrows.
Ghost percussion from absent woodpecker reverberates,
brief reprieve before syncopation resumes,
rudely dents morning air.
