Bird Feed

A metaphorical poem that Cardinals’ fans might comprehend a little quicker than some

Tonight is the beginning of the spring course of the adult ed creative writing class I have been facilitating for the past few years.

I will never forget the anxiety I felt teaching my first adult ed class. You’d think after 38 years of teaching high school, I would have been calm about the whole thing. But I had never taught adults before,

Thus, I greeted the adult students and confessed, “You know, I’m feeling kind of nervous about teaching this class —- I’ve heard that working with adults can get rather rough.”

Thankfully, they all laughed —- and I was able to breathe a sigh of relief.

Each of us brings an original poem, story or sheet of song lyrics which each of us shares with the class —- and then the class offers creative feedback that is often witty, insightful and, at times, hilarious.

That’s the thing about humor —- I have often said that without humor, few would be able to sustain their attention —- and that a classroom without laughter is like a summer snack bar without ice cream.

That’s the thing about humor —- nobody wants to miss it.

While the poem I wrote for tonight’s first class is not a knee-slapper by any stretch of the imagination, I am hoping there are aspects of it that you and my classmates will find amusing.

The last stanza is especially for all cardinal lovers —- even the football kind —- like we are, of course, in a figurative and metaphorical sense.

Photo by Jennifer Stewart/Getty Images

Bird Feed

I

I wake up at 5 am most days

At 69, I’m often wide awake in the dark

I sleep in a series of three two-and-half hour shifts

In between, I get up, urinate and gargle

By the light of an Auvon motion detector

Then take a deep swig off my Poland Spring and go back

Pull the duvet up to my nostrils

Rub my fingertips across my forearm

Until I fall back into a semblance of slumber

II

At 5 am, I recite my prayers

Begin a litany of those to pray for

My son-in-law’s lovely mom who had a stroke

A popular high school classmate who has cancer in his sternum

A favorite student who once told me how he was going to kill himself

A dear childhood friend who has been getting eaten by blood-sucking bed bugs

III

I pray for peacemakers — Lord only knows where we would be without them

For panaceas — Good Samaritans — and “Sol Angels”

And like Holden Caulfield, I decide, at the end, to thank everyone — I miss

IV

As soon as I can see the slightest trace of a shadow on the back lawn

I take the oldest loaf of bread and crumple up the slices into a mishmash of crumbs

Proud to think my pitching arm is still in decent shape, I cast the crumbs

Toward the twin oak trees that stand halfway between the back porch

And the steep, heather-trimmed, edge of the lake

V

By the back window while sipping on my warm mug of half coffee, half cocoa

I watch the birds make the call —- first the little gray wrens who dive and peck so daintily

Then the full-bellied blue jays who pounce on the crumbs and zoom off into the woods

Then the clambering crows — perching in the treetops, cawing in utter consternation

How one brave crow tries the long descent and plops by a piece of crust — only to pause

Long enough to allow randy squirrels to barge right in and whoosh the murder away.

VI

I always find myself watching in wonder at the blush of robins

Who never come for the bread — far too busy patrolling the perimeter of the lawn

Like sentries with their little three-step hops and four-second pauses

Before dipping their heads and flipping over leaves to forage into the wet earth below

VII

Yet, every morning I hope for the rare sight of the proud, red cardinal

Who never arrives alone without his tenacious, understated, steadfast wife

Funny, but cardinals rarely arrive when other birds are on the scene — they make the trip

when all the trees are empty — like when the wide-winged hawk is swirling around the lake

VIII

Those gutsy cardinals who like to do their eating alone on a lawn all to themselves

IX

And I haven’t a notion why — but whenever I catch privileged glimpses of cardinals

And study the sheer brilliance of blazing red feathers, crimson crests, black facemasks and

sharp yellow beaks —

—- I wonder deeply about creation —

And how a universal explosion of stars —

Brought the cardinals to me

Walter B.J. Mitchell

There’s a little something in each of us that is meant to love a cardinal. There has to be, correct?