The Waves, splay of their wings
mean arrival,
attendant expectation.

New home of twigs.
Harbor of eaves.
Worms on the menu.
No three pigs at dusk.

What if
she didn't prefer house building
or worse,
he fancied himself a musician
content to preen and chortle, or

say I were the one
with the mouthful of mud,
I the wife looking in
at a man who couldn't decide

what it was like to be the other guy,
the guy with the house,
the guy with the jay every bird wanted,

the guy who watched blues
arriving

blues winging away.

Thomas Robert Barnes