Thrashers

The man who was my father
worshipped sun
and soaked up summer heat
in winter wool.

Still he remembered clover he called sweet
and driving cows to barn
to milk and feed
and so begin the day.

Some days he met
brown thrashers down the lane
when grass was wet
and he was yet a boy not quite awake

These birds he learned to love,
remembered still.

And I, not quite awake, am moved to ask
what makes a boy a man.
It's not the sex,
though that's what men make it,
laying down
the rules for lying down in grass
or cars.

Perhaps a man persists and nothing more,
the testicles descended,
eggs to nests
like sacks
bright Northern orioles hang in trees.

It makes me think of boats that work up wind,
of man gorilla fighter, man the strong,
who stands against all weakness,
the macho man,
the braggart.

Not alone, I find this man repulsive,
prefer snakes
that move upon their bellies,
loving shade when desert sand is hot,
picking a rock in sun
when wind is chilly.