Perched a-top the weather vane,
a-top the cow’s butt pointing
due south at the peak of the barn roof,
that mockingbird proclaims
his proclivity for ripping off tunes.
Radio station on scan never lingers.
What remarkable range, what
preposterous talent. Chest puffed out
he belts out blue jay blues,
song sparrow solos, black crow
raucous rock and roll; he croons
a robin’s latest country hoe-down.
Poor fellow—born with no
song of his own, no apologies
what-so-ever.
