I’m awake at dawn picking blueberries
because busybody catbirds and I play
without a net. Slim, formally dressed
in slate gray and black cap, they scold
me with sharp chips and a grating tcheck, tcheck
from among tangled branches
and dangling berries. Jauntily flipping
long tails, they finally burst from the bush,
land in nearby trees, and tease the neighbor’s
cat with poorly accented mewing.
When I’m done picking, they’re back
with twitchy doings and halting,
rambling warbles filled
with complaining squeaks, and shrill
cries. Sovereign squatters,
they pluck fruit just before ripe, denying
me sweetness despite years of watering,
pruning, and fertilizing, no doubt
considering a meal just compensation
for the soothing sweetness of their song.
Photo courtesy of Wendy Rosenberg
