Wait…I hear your slight rustling through the leaves,
Though times you light upon the shaded eaves
Beyond my vision for a moment just,
Then quickly skim in flight flashing some rust.
Now I snatch a glimpse of that mottled coat
( Your garb’s not one of particular note).
You wear your formal vest of mourning gray,
Black cap and pointed mask, while you display
Tailfeathers spread into one somber fan
That whisk and flare as though in fear you ran.
Those epaulets that grace your dull costume
Do cry aloud for the want of a plume.
Your garment seems wrought of velvet and lace
The gray extends to the top of your face.
Your trim beak seems poised so satin and still
As sharp as the pointed end of a drill.
Why even your name doesn’t do you much pride
And conjures a picture of creatures that hide.
What manner of wild bird art thou, my friend?
Don’t leave till I capture your image and
Learn something more of how you live and breed
Sneaking through tangles of my garden weed.
Observing the fact that beauty’s respected
Sad catbird I’d guess that you’re long neglected.
Claire V. Bogdanos 