Sunday, November 20, 2022

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.

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