Pileated Woodpecker

This boy must be in season, this blaze-headed feather jack hammering shack up condos into swooned oaks, sautéing up fire ants for a seductive nibble in the pulp. You can hear him all over the island a mating pummel; his peckered pocks embarrass us along our saunters such a committed pecker, this woody, drilling wood, making mating dust around your mailbox by the road, out there, an exhibitionist hammering Nessum Dorma’s into the timber, belting away at his craft; his hard wired love gut to persist, and the fade out of us jaded human shucks, looking through our windshields at such wide wondering howls in the dead of the wood.