Almost Ghazal for Them Cowbirds

I’ve watched wild birds more times than I can count
eagle, heron, stork, pelican, gull, wild geese forming

imperfect vees or standing, shitting, foraging, taking the air
with clatter of wings from shores, marshes—sky storming

or clear seeming in all respects made to their measure,
open no matter the weather to their presence, not conforming

itself to any need of theirs, requiring only its own formal
perfection whether of cloud, sun, thunder, or all transforming

lightning. When the sky cracks open birds find respite
in coves, on branches, inlets, some instinct of theirs performing

in place of thought, we say, we who scour the heavens for them.
In Texas once, photographing a herd of egrets swarming

preening, and feeding at an accidental pond after a rain
nearby, I met a fellow who couldn’t resist informing

me that “them cowbirds” must make good subjects for my camera.
“They’re egrets, cattle egrets,” I replied, not thinking, and received this charming

rejoinder: “Naw, them’s cowbirds, jus’ ord’nary cowbirds.”