Not yet nine a.m.,
the birds are still vocal.
Whip Whip Whip
Screech Screech
Screech in reply.
The orioles must be gone by now.
I missed their young this year,
but heard the parents
pecking in the palm for fiber.
I wish it were that easy,
stolen wisps tightly woven,
and then you fly away.
I don’t know if they mate for life,
only that I
can’t seem to.