By Jared Pearce

The fledglings out the dining
window are full and flown;
two weeks it took their down

to fluff, their pinions stress,
their constant parents snatching
moths to stuff their needy maws.

Now the yard is still without
their cat-like mews,
the adults hunting and feeding,

so other birds encroach their
territory. There’s been no sign
of the young. But what if

they crash their motor or lose
tuition or their hearts are broken
and they have to return to sleep

in the nest’s basement? If
they eat my raspberries,
I don’t want them to stay,

but if they clean a grub or squash
bug, let them flit in, fill
like a swimmer chugging breath,

and then release again
their miniscule poops, when
they flap tiny eddies of air.

Jared Pearce‘s collection, The Annotated Murder of One, was released by Aubade last year ( His poems have recently been or will soon be shared in Xavier Review, Breadcrumbs, Blue Mountain Review, Canyon Voices, and The Cabinet of Heed.  Further: