The Official Site of Author Joseph Heywood-Non Fiction

[April 4, 2009]

When I walk the scary path,
I whistle to cardinals
Clad in red – I mean birds
Ordained by evolution,
(Not those hated by popes -
Themselves duly elected
In conclaves, and trumpeted
by smoke snaking from chimneys.)

The birds sing, I sing, in turns
I have no notion what
We might be discussing.

(Which when I ponder it,
Might be a lot like talking
To a Latin-spouting man
Resplendent in a red dress.)

The birds’ whistling, (ornos call songs)
Varying with weather moods.
I hereby confess I am
in my native tongue entirely
Tone-deaf, long a source of family
Scorn and pointed sarcasm,
My songs ignored by my kids
But robustly and quickly
answered by cardinals,
Who seem to welcome attention
Even from an old camo-man.