The Western Kingbird is one of my favorite birds.  It is unremarkable in size, color, song, or other characteristics enjoyed by more glamorous birds.  Its only coloration is a slight yellow-green on the breast.  But I love to watch the Kingbird’s frenetically acrobatic flight as it catches insects on the wing.  And I love listening to them from where they sit perched on the top of fence posts and power poles, singing an indecipherable electronica, devoid of tune but fascinating nonetheless.  Every morning when I leave for work, and every evening upon my returning home, a little Kingbird calls to me with a friendly whistle.  Today he let me take this picture as he perched on my wall with a grasshopper in his beak.  Enthralled with my new friend, to whose whistles I always offer my own greeting of “Hello little Kingbird,” I wrote this poem.

KINGBIRD

You are always
there, in that same spot,
on the top
of the fence post,
little Kingbird.

You twitter
at me, so I will
look to you,
find you, again
in that place,
tidy Kingbird.

You catch
and hold my gaze, then
twitch and twitter,
yellow Kingbird.

A quick hop,
an acrobatic
flap after
an airborne bug,
quick little Kingbird.

And you wing away
with a twitter
and a whistle
until tomorrow,
friendly Kingbird.