SIX BIRDS
two crows
at the side of the road pecking
at something dead, bits
of stringy gray flesh in the tips of
their yellowed beaks: pecking, pecking,
heads jabbing down striking, glass-eyes
glistening in the sun
an eagle
in the forest, large and brown, drops
seemingly from nowhere into nothing as
we walk beneath the trees
two geese
the river slides before me, tiny smooth
ripples, noiseless against the reeds
and broken tree branches and thick thick
black roots like tired snakes, still winter
so no turtles or fish break the surface,
only two geese standing stiff as statues,
eyeing me and the quiet river too
an egret
stands in the shallows of a pond, poised,
elegant, focused, his long beak snapping
suddenly like a whip into the water,
stabbing at a plump, brown tadpole,
but misses, his beady eyes stare
into the dark water, incredulous, and,
if I didn’t know better, a little
embarrassed about it too
Michael Estabrook: After 40 years of working for “The Man” and sometimes “The Woman” Michael Estabrook is finally free. No more useless meetings under florescent lights in stuffy windowless rooms. He can concentrate instead on making better poems and on pursuing his other interests including: history, art, music, theatre, opera, and his wife who is still the most beautiful woman he has ever known.
