NaPoWriMo Day 23: The bird

 
Day 23 of the NaPoWriMo challenge at www.napowrimo.net.
 
Prompt: Humans might be the only species to compose music, but we’re quite famously not the only ones to make it. Birdsong is all around us – even in cities, there are sparrows chirping, starlings making a racket. And it’s hardly surprising that birdsong has inspired poets. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own poem that focuses on birdsong.

 
The bird
 
He thought he couldn’t live without her,
after she left, without a murmur.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon,
the sun was high, and he somehow knew
she was gone before he looked about,
before he found her scribbled note.
She accused him of being ‘bloody boring’,
not caring, not noticing, just not being.
 
And that was that, his Ruth was gone,
but outside that putrid sun still shone.
A soft breeze blew through the open window
and down the sidewalk he heard the people go,
gliding, their endless chatter a rising stream.
The day suddenly seemed an empty dream.
 
It was a necessary clearance, he decided later,
when weeks had passed and he called the realter,
but reconsidered it – this was still his home.
It wasn’t like him to just sit still and moan,
but he could not endure this silence unheard,
so he went out and bought a brand-new bird,
an emerald budgie, the first pet he’d ever owned,
and to him his heart this little bird loaned.
 
He made sure to keep the cage door wide,
so Fred could fly free, and roam and hide,
taking the apartment in strong, swift laps,
landing on the heads of any visiting chaps,
so he could ruffle their greying hair and sway
back and forth in his own endearing way.
 
Fred was far less bother than a wife.
He never nagged, contradicted or caused strife.
Fred never said he was wearing the wrong tie,
saying a stupid word or just being the wrong guy.
A budgerigar won’t ever embroider the truth,
not like the porkies drawn up by Ruth.
She lied many a time about the delivery driver,
giving him a much bigger tip than the usual fiver.
 
“Don’t forget to wipe your feet,” Ruth would shout.
“Don’t forget to breathe,” he’d whisper about.
 
If he was in a happy mood, Fred knew.
He’d wing it. Round and around he flew.
If he was feeling that life got colder,
Fred would perch upon his shoulder.
If he was feeling a bit waylaid,
Fred would nod at everything he said.
 
Unlike his wife who had too much to say,
moaned at everything and called it a day,
Fred would never screech, demand to be fed.
Even when the bird pooed on his bed,
he knew it was nothing personal.
If his wife saw that, he’d take the fall,
because she blamed him for everything.
Now, any criticism was just water off his wing.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, April 23, 2025