The Magpies

I have binoculars out to look at the magpies

resting in the branches of the scrubby pine

outside.  

The snow is melting beyond the window.

A few fallen leaves rattle around in the wind.

A glass sits on the table in front of me.

The water

glows a little in the sunlight.

I raise the lenses, magnifying the birds.

Inside the house, I do not hear the magpies.

Once their young start to fledge,

their cackling in the bushes will disturb

                        my sleep.

The gabbling of their hungry voices

will break the spell cast by the long,

black tail feathers waving iridescent

green and blue,

the violet sheen. 

On this morning

they are silent and wondrous as macaws.

In the grass beyond I see the remains

of a robin’s empty nest decaying

                        on the ground. 

A dead chick

left by the magpies rests on the box

defining the entrance to the house.

                        The season is too young yet

                        to think of planting flowers there.

I will hide the pink flesh, feathers and bones

                        from my son

by casting the carcass under the pine. 

The eyecups of the binoculars cool the skin

                        above my cheeks.

The heft identical to that of the BB gun

I borrowed as a boy when I used to roam

                        the willow-dotted fields

                        hunting magpies.

The copper pellets cracked

against the tangled sticks, silenced the young birds

                        in their nests

The cold of the metal lingers on my face

                        as I sip the water

                        and my ordinary secrets bloom.

- Matt Daly 

Matt Daly teaches in Jackson area schools and throughout Wyoming. He is the Media Coordinator for pARTners.