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.