Magpie swoops you in spring,
in fall, chirrups her wock-a-wock
call — Pica pica this, Pica pica that —
caches all in her bushel-basket nest:
buttons, string, shine. Flicked
bill, flashed tail, she swaggers,
struts. Ah my dear, we look on you,
who adorns herself in opposites of
self — white snow, black night. Her
compass flight banks low on raptor
raid, stirs high to a raucous perch;
the gall, so much fruit and grain. Were
we but this bird, reflecting all, absorbing
all — blast of wind — seeking after.
