Shannon Costello

I wonder why the swooping blue jay seems to get it all.
His song is lovely echoed chimes, (though raucous is his call)-
Bright blue, jet black and shining white all contrast in his plumage-
With looks and actions bold he’s in the center of the scrimmage.

Then there’s the simple starling, who’s possessed of but a name.
His walk a awkward bobbing, on the sidelines, lacking fame.
Dark feathers spattered randomly as white paint drops could fall.
He’s doomed to nothing special, mediocrity his all.

I’ll ask, too, of the vulture, with his name so unpoetic,
His awful hunchbacked aspect- his appearance, many dread it.
Why make a bird that likes to gather round a woeful carcass?
A bird you’re sure to always meet, just when the road is darkest?

Though winding down, I find I still have insufficient answers-
My thoughts trip up inside me much like awkward, stumbling dancers.
But if on seeing your reflection, you find there a blackbird ordinary
Of feather dye and jealously, and gazing overmuch- be wary!