Grackle

In the hydrant’s stream,

The grackles bathed

Ruffling their blue, black

Feather, they soaked in

The water that reflected

The clear morning sky. 

These birds with their

Lanced beaks and indigo sheen

would never know the words,

“Who’s a pretty bird?”

Rather,

They would be the bane of

Apartment managers,

Outdoor cafes and

Cars parked ‘neath their nighttime roosts.

But even after stuffed owls,

Spikes on roof tops and

Mini-cannons,

The grackles still caw, “Ever more!”

A broken hydrant, the people’s loss,

Becomes an oasis,

a spa in the concrete

for these wandering urban

gypsies of the screech and din. 

Unfrosting

The ramblings of the clover and bunch grass 

is momentarily halted by the frost's silver embossing.  

Already, the morning's sun has driven away

the night's glittering gifts.

Across the lot with its roughly broken clay,

the electrical and sewer pipes stand, waiting. 

Perhaps, they're waiting for an infusion

of capital in the housing markets or 

maybe, the gentrificators have forgotten them, again.

As long as people wonder at the glistening ice

on slender green blades

and perceive the sun rising,

they'll think less of water molecules

crystallizing and aligning at angles

and more of Jack Frost's etchings 

and his questioning, 

"Are you cold fair maid?  Are you chilled?"