Cardinal Trilogy

1.

The bird in the maple sings brightly,
a sprightly bird.

Pretty boy, pretty boy, it says, smartly.
What's new? What's new?

Not yet spring, winter still holds dominion,
no hints in view
except for red whistles that come;

and where branches, too,
are dotted with red announcements
that very soon

winged promise shall whirl-a-gig down,
seeds all aflutter
that cardinals unable to eat

and humans sweep daily from sidewalks
and hose out of gutters.

2.

The cardinal is a pretty boy.

You can hear his whistle
that calls attention to himself most clearly.

As lover and busy father,
he feeds his mate bill to bill.
It appears they’re kissing.

In late summer when feathers go missing,
his scalp is black.
You’d think he would be embarrassed.
Not so. Not so.

Pretty boy! Pretty boy! he proclaims,
not meaning you.
For you, it’s the same old question:
What's new? What's new?

3.

His bill is hammer and anvil.
He shares God's need
to sort out husks
and then winnow.

His feathers, red,
are the color of blood fresh to air.
With grass
he is glad to declare
his support for Christmas.

His feet that grip
are also as stable as tripods.
He stoops to sip
snow melt collected
in sod.

The fringe of beard
growing next to his bill is mascara.
It draws all eyes
to his eye
that is lustrous black.

The mating color of this bird
with his macho whistle
is unsurpassed
as a sexual pass the very first thing
on an early morning.