I’m up at dawn picking blueberries
because the busybody catbirds and I play
without a net. Slim, formally dressed
in slate gray and black cap, they scold
me with sharp chips, a grating tcheck, tcheck
from among the tangle of branches
and dangling berries. Jauntily flipping
long tails, they burst from the bush,
alighting on trees to tease nearby
felines with poorly accented rhythmic mewing.
When I’ve picked my fill they’re back
with twitchy doings and halting,
rambling warbles filled with squeaks, complaining
checks, mews and shrill cries more conversational
than musical. Sovereign squatters,
they pluck fruit just before ripe
denying me sweetness despite years
of watering, pruning, composting and fertilizing.
Saucily they insist, it’s more than compensation
for the soothing sweetness of their song.
Photo courtesy of Wendy Rosenberg
