The Warbler

Two men stopped at a scenic turnout—

One a biker on his motorbike,

One old and small in his old, small car.

They both both stepped across the road to look

Over the cliff at the distant peaks.

The young, burly biker was chatty.

Afternoon! Beautiful, isn’t it!?

The little old man was not. It is.

The biker had a big camera

And took many zoomed pictures with it.

The little old man sat on a rock

And thought dark thoughts about that biker,

Stomping around, snorting and spitting

Like a bull elk. He even bugled,

Sort of, at one point, imitating

A warbler, with that optimism

Some people have that natural sounds

Would like a conversation with them.

Finally, the biker left, after

Apparently finishing a piss

Behind a ponderosa. So long!

Have a good day! He called, adjusting

His leathers, his SLR slung

Around his neck. Then he roared off,

Leaving the little old man to sit

On the rocks, considering dark thoughts.

The warbler trilled again, having paused.