Hoodlum Birds

The fearless blackbirds see me again at the footpath beside the tall grasses sprouting like unruly morning hair. They caw and caw like vulgar boys on street corners making love to girls with their “hey mama this” and their “hey mama that.” But this gang of birds is much too slick. They are my homeys of the air with their mousse-backed hair and Crayola black coats like small fry hoods who smoke and joke about each other’s mothers, virginal sisters, and the sweet arc of revenge. These birds spurn my uneaten celery sticks, feckless gestures, ineffective hosannas. They tag one another, shrill and terrible, caroling each to each my weekly wages. But they let me pass, then flit away. They won’t mess with me this time— they know where I live.