Fledglings

After a short winter, a big fire,
A hard rain, now an early spring,
The birds have returned 
To my backyard.

The crows never left, and
As I’m not a naturalist,
I’ve no idea of what any
Bird is actually named.

But I can hear the different sounds:
Whistles and caws, tweets and song,
Some high up, some low,
Some cheerful, some not so.

I haven’t yet seen
The feral parrots.
They roost in Malibu.
I hope the fire did not take them.

Some in Malibu are annoyed
By the wild flocks, loud and messy.
But I only see them fly by free
Going which way or another.

Outside of the parrots, the birds I see
Are not particularly brightly colored.  They
Hide, which makes sense to me,
After all, who knows who is after them.

No bright blues, no stunning greens.
No cardinal flaming red plumes
That might reveal a fledgling
To be grabbed out of its nest

To be hauled away to a dark tunnel
To shiver and cry, unaware, unable
To consider its possible fate.

The mother bird should be chased away
Before the fledgling is taken, we are Torah
Taught.  But then sometimes mothers are
Taken with red-headed fledglings 

And driven off, to tunnels, to dark,
To terror, to fear, to large hands
Enwrapping necks.

Eventually, the Malibu parrots will reemerge
And fill the air in flight,
Free, alive.
And red-headed fledglings will 
Be remembered,

And their souls comforted by 
The Infinite One,
And their mourners comforted,
One by the other,
And
Right and proper justice shall be 
Exacted,
In its right and proper time.

February 21, 2025
23 Shevat 5785