Black Phoebe
I call him Flash Fleetwing,
a bird to train in my hand,
yet he’d never permit it.
Fred Astairing the breeze he
plucks food on the fly.
Dressed to kill in charcoal waistcoat,
inverted V white bib,
probably monogrammed,
he thrills air.
Sycamore branch to lamppost,
he mocks gravity and breeze
who skirmish for his attention.
My whistling swivels his
head.
Top feathers go crewcut,
insistent with pheep, pheep.
pheep.
Birders say he protects his
territory
when he zooms me that way.
What do they know of friendship?
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