The Grackle in His Black Silk Suit

It was the song, its consistent repeat
that drew me outside to discover the source—

a fancy flourish in a tux, a tiptoeing tenor,
a tease with dips and bows, a high wire act.

His apparent audience: the small lady in a front seat,
glimpsing the show while smoothing brown pleats

and me who stared silently, wiping hands on an apron
before sitting on porch steps to watch the show.

Mid-routine, the lady flew up an aisle, wing beats
brushing feather dust in my face as she raced by

as if to tell me that I could have him:
all he did was sing and dance, nothing more.

His intended gone, the tone changed to squawks
scolding me as if it was my fault she left.

Margaret Ellis Hill