Birds of Pray

Thrashers, who are mockers,
initiate first light ceremonies,
(or be it, their morning worship)
imitating Robins, a bird who hops around
in red breast so imperial, it leads me to believe
these birds might indeed be English.

A Robin's chorus is less substantial than that of a Thrasher's.
Yet, its simple phrasing draws worms to surface
like cobras out of woven baskets. It's an evolutionary device
which confounds caterpillars into falling off of tricky boughs.
The vocalization also mimics the mating call of thicket crickets:
"Hither, Hot Pants, hasten. I itch, come scratch my genus."

By noon, when Robins sing no more,
The Thrasher's solo has just begun.
By August night, the repertoire is absolutely lunar,
that if the deceased in Confederate grave yards had but ears,
and semblance of tissue upon their once tight lips,
they'd join in trill the non stop jazz all evening.

I tell you friend,
Georgia nights are holy riotous,
but far too few live to breathe them.
Glance now up at the moon mooning her thinning veils.
Do you what you see? Bats like kamikaze, flying unevenly
into aerial insect eateries