After a few minutes, they left the wire and flew straight toward the end of the house where I was standing. When they got close I could see no discernible markings on them. They were just plain, small, brownish-gray birds. They alighted briefly on the rain gutter, then took off again, passing over the house toward the back yard. I heard no more from them after that, and didn't see them when I went to the back yard to feed the cats a bit later.
Whatever species they were, they must have been just passing through, but I have no idea how long their journey might have been, where they were from, or where they were bound. Once the strangers were gone, the only birds I heard were the acorn woodpeckers doing their usual chuckle. Their familiar call suddenly seemed so prosaic, ringing through the fading evening light.
Sunday Verse
Serenade
by Kevin Young
I wake to the cracked plate
of moon being thrown
across the room–
that'll fix me
for trying sleep.
Lately even night
has left me–
now even the machine
that makes the rain
has stopped sending
the sun away.
It is late,
or early, depending–
who's to say.
Who's to name
these ragged stars, this
light that waters
down the insomniac dark
before I down
it myself.
Sleep, I swear
there's no one else–
raise me up
in the near-night
& set me like
a tin toy to work,
clanking in the bare
broken bright.