Flightpath
Late November and spring rain falls the glen,
dry nor-westers shed pine needle and cone -
and “koork kok” crows the cock pheasant and hen
who outside my window have always flown.
In the thickets and hanging gardens from
calls my ring-necked friend, my avian muse
who, silenced by the Iroquois’s loud thrum,
shines in the dappled sun its copper hues.
Behold his red faced wattle in the grass,
a white collared chromatic blue-green head
and long tail feathers that before me pass
as to the heavens his princely wings spread.
For in these hills in wild and wondrous sound
echo game fowl and the choppers inbound.
Written: November 1994
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