Our household is, for now,
One creature larger: a noisy bird
Of olive drab and shining yellow,
Large as a jungle crow,
Early morning and late afternoon
She visits our landing window
And converses.
She has two phrases: the one,
Soft, melodic, mellow, spoken
Demurely from her throat;
The second and more frequent,
A harsh continuous wavering
One note screech, beak open wide,
Proclaiming with great energy
Whatever it may be that she proclaims
She speaks thus looking through the window;
She seems to be directing her remarks
To us within the house, and we,
Or I at least, would love to know
What she exclaims with such persistence
And who her sweet song calls.
Understood or no, it gives me joy
And pride that she should come to us
In all her olive yellow beauty.
But I find all birds beautiful,
Fantastic that they live in three
Dimensions and colour field
And tree and sky; auspiciousness
Personified in song, in plumage
And in flight.
And if one chooses so to talk to me,
Then I will surely listen, never mind
That I don’t comprehend,
For most of what I’ve understood
Has done me little good.
Better then to just enjoy
The converse of a yellow bird.
Patrick Redican 