The dark cloud found me that morning. Consumed by anxiety, I threw myself onto the sofa, pulled the blanket over my head, and closed my eyes to the world.

Oddly feeling weightless and fatigued, I meandered to the bathhouse for a shower, hoping that would help. I breathed, I argued, bargained, and prayed. At least I felt clean.

It was nearly ten O’clock when I departed my home. I strung on another late work day into my week, but I wore that string of black pearls with little guilt. I set up my workstation and completed a task before being summoned to the airport. Ben was finally coming home.

With low energy, I greeted my husband and drove back to work. We hugged and kissed and he drove off. I slugged my way back to the office feeling tired, empty, and numb.

My attempt at productivity that afternoon proved futile. I had to reset, and I knew what to do.

I grabbed my binoculars, my shades, and my tunes (but I didn’t listen to them). I let the flow of traffic set the mood.

Strolling up Main Street, I felt weightless even more, like outside of myself. I arrived at the riverside. As I stood at the water’s edge, the birds flew by and I studied them. I began my checklist as I usually do, then united myself with a familiar dirt path. Immersed in the forest, I tried to breathe my demons away, but they wouldn’t move. I continued.

On my route, I heard bird calls in the brush. I saw a large, brown fledgling begging for lunch. Its parents arrived, but to my surprise their offspring doubled them in size.

It was a baby cowbird that had been laid in its foster parents’ nest. It’s not the vireos’ fault, they only did what they knew best.

At that moment it clicked. I saw my feelings manifested in an avian play. I couldn’t let the invader win the day.

Depression is like a cowbird, I told my friend. When you feed it, it thrives and grows, killing the chicks of joy nested in your head.

Lesson learned, don’t feed the cowbird.

The One I Seek

When my heart was ready, when I came of age,
I left my parent’s nest, to find a beautiful stage,
I found the perfect spot, in a very lovely tree,
To sing my little song, so my True Love could hear me.

Singing for the one that I seek,
The one that I seek
The one that I seek.

Many birds were singing, and a few answered me,
Many were very sweet but not my true love to be,
One cool afternoon, a song could be heard all around,
I finally saw her, a Cowbird with lovely feathers brown.

Singing that you were the one that I seek
The one that I seek
The one that I seek.

Your song was so merry, so high, so sweet
Your words and soft nature a gentle treat
Could you be the one that I seek?
Was it truth coming out of your beak?

Singing that you were the one that I seek
The one that I seek
The one that I seek.

A nest I had built, my heart was nestled there,
The love for my true love laid open and bare,
With the rush of winter coming, your notes did sway,
So I didn’t see you trying to roll my heart away.

Singing that you were the one that I seek
The one that I seek
The one that I seek.

I was alone so welcomed your lovely song,
Ignoring everything that told me that this was wrong,
You put your needs in my nest, saying they were mine,
I was so lost, I believed what was toxic was just fine.

Singing that you were the one I seek
The one I seek
The one I seek

Then my True Love appeared, from the warm south,
You did your best to take her words from her mouth.
That you were there first, that she would have to share,
That your needs came first, that it would be fair.

Singing that you were the one I seek
The one that I seek
The one that I seek.

I did my best to make it work, despite the heavy strain,
Nothing was good enough, proving your love was pain,
You tried to run my life and made all my friends flee,
If you were my True Love, why did you do this to me?

While singing that you were the one that I seek
The one that I seek
The one that I seek.

You thought you had it under control, had it your way,
That we would do what you wanted, to do as you say,
You dismissed her size, you so didn’t see her strike,
It was never you Cowbird; for my True Love is a Shrike.

And now you have a thorn driven through your cheek,
Through your cheek,
Through your cheek.

Farewell Cowbird, your lies were never to be enough,
Your sweet notes were misleading, your song but a bluff,
My eyes are open, and my mind is finally clear,
I sing my own song, for my True Love to hear:

That she is the one that I seek,
The one that I seek,
The one that I seek.

Eastern towhee flits along garden edge
picking here and there
its movements assumed to be  
intentional to casual observers
who imagine a search for food
or a gathering of sprigs for a nest.

Last night was a mystery;
a kiss, then a hug followed by a tirade
seemingly without a purpose.  
Was there intent to hurt,
to inflict an invisible ****
deep inside her chest?

Cowbirds leave their eggs in towhee nests
expecting the towhee to hatch them.
The cowbird knows its purpose.

Unlike the bird, he seems unaware
that consequences ride
on the back of his behaviors
like mites cling to a wing.

He wanted to assert himself
to make clear his desires.
He didn't intend to wound her heart.

I've never asked how you felt
About being watched
Some of us humans will
Travel great distances
Just to catch a glimpse
How do you feel about this?

Is it a bother, perhaps
That a clunky, binocular-toting creature
Is trundling ungracefully through your home?
Your domestic life
Needs no prying eyes

Or could it be an honor?
You merely inherited
The feathers, the songs
And you're loved for it

Perhaps you are indifferent?
You pay them no heed,
Since they do not pose a threat
To your food or family
While they stand around and stare vacantly

Maybe it depends
If you were a sparrow happily whistling,
Or a bunting bachelor finding a suitor,
Or a warbler that had a REALLY bad day
Since her baby turned out to be a cowbird?
Or a goose whose patience runs thin
As the screaming human-chicks keep chasing it?

If you could take up a pen,
Or a quill, since you have many,
I would love for you
To get back to me
So at least I could respect your wishes

We humans used to live in colonies like Purple Martins
But now, if you come within six feet of us
We are skittish like the rarest Warbler.
In the future; tomorrow and the foreseeable days thereafter,
Our children will become people watchers
Cataloguing all the neighborhood types,
Like the Blue-bellied Mail Carrier
Or the UPS Driver with their brown plumage
Who drops packages like the old Cowbird, their eggs
In your nest.
More adventurous children will venture out with their “People Magazines”
Trying to seek out rare life sightings of the Sexiest Man alive
Or a common Kardashian, often without plumage.
The most cherished sightings occur when grandma and grandpa appear
On their nest cams, cozy and safe,  reaching out to hug or kiss empty space
While decorating their nest with a holiday table that won’t be filled with their
little hungry birds,  
As in other days, and different nights.
Selah.

They are called cowbirds.

I did not know this until
just a few weeks ago.

The neighbor-lady told me.

I told her that they made me think
of those fish that you see during
documentaries about the ocean;
the fish that cluster and move
and
bend the shape of the whole school
so that it catches the light that is just
visible below the surface
and
is just
bright enough to scare the sharks or
dolphins enough into thinking that
the entire school is one big fish that
might do well at fighting back against
dolphins or sharks,
so they end up leaving that particular school
of fish alone and look for easier prey.

“Yeah. They’re called cowbirds”,
she said again.

So, I asked her if she came out to look at the pinks
and purples  and oranges of this sunrise and I asked her if
she thought that the ***** snowdrifts looked like coral reefs
now that they’ve melted in the sun that we’ve had in the afternoons.

I told her again that the coral reef snowdrifts and the way that they’ve melted
are the reason that the cowbirds made me think of those fish from the ocean documentaries and I’m sorry I can’t remember what those fish are called,
but
aren’t the colors of the sunrise beautiful?

“So, yeah, they’re called cowbirds”, she said one last time as she turned to go back inside.

“Now I know what a cowbird is”, I thought.

And, in spite of the black and grey dirt on them,
I still thought that the snowdrifts looked like coral reefs as they melted,
and
I still thought that the lavender sky,
with its pink and orange laser beams
was beautiful while the cowbirds swarmed
and
their inkblot flocks
coiled
and
spooled through an ocean of blue ,
my brain wandered around the ocean
and wondered if those same types of silver-scaled fish
made like the cowbirds while avoiding
the dolphins and the sharks
as though they were seafaring
raptors.


*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019

And so
I've patterned
Myself after a
Robin
All fluttery

Times tough
In the trees
Shrubbery
And worm
Catching biz

Got a nest
To build
By spring
You see
Only so
Many feathers
To wit

So treacherous
The sky
Has become
Busy with
Stealing mockingbirds
Titmouses a stray
Blue ******* jay
Amiss

Then all
Done with a home
A lazy cowbird
Comes
Lays her egg
Amongst my own
Goes wandering
Away

And I like
robins do coo
And caw at
Early mornings
Do
Feed the orphans
The deranged

Then when
This nest
Is overflowing
With upturned
Beaks all
Calling for
Worms for sustenance
I make do
With what
I catch
Or borrow
Or steal

Just ******* coo

It's the sharp smell of saturated soil
Watching a puff-chested robin pluck a worm from the earth.
Violet tickled feet hop the spring marsh,
And sharp yellow trills sound like the nearby
Rambling brook.

They come along in mostly threes and fives.

Time ensconces her like petals.
Scrolling through one life we see
Petals wrapping left, or right:

Flying forward, hear the chickies cheeping
She feeds their yawning beaks a worm
The cowbird, now, she's noticing

Rustling petals tell their story:
Macon is her winter home.
The southern air smells slightly sweeter

Flipping through the days and seasons
Petals welcome blackened fruits
The fetus of inimic feature
Is pregnant with shadows of the past.

It's how her collapsing body made room
For everything that has been.

And heading eggwards, backyard feeders
Summers spent in Pennsylvania
Followed rounds and first palms ever...

Waketh I, to pungent earth!

Baby robins are good-natured
I suppose in life, they must commit some grave crime
So say to all these blackened fruits of mine:
Trophies for participation.
Help me down into my place
Be the wet-nurse of my

A generally cerebral acquisition
intertwining heterosexual generic guy,
who first started dating gals,
when a late teen/
early twenty something,
who overcame his shyness
courtesy consuming powder milk biscuits;
usually described as
"made from whole wheat
raised in the rich bottomlands
of the Lake Wobegon river valley
by Norwegian bachelor farmers;
so you know
they're not only good for you,
but pure... mostly.

Buy them ready-made
in the big blue box
with the picture of the biscuit
on the cover,
or in the brown bag
with the dark stains
that indicate freshness.

Whole wheat that gives
shy persons the strength
to get up and do
what needs to be done,
especially a then
first time contra dancer
such as yours truly – me!

Heavens, they're tasty, and expeditious!"

I buzzfeed jump/kickstarted to drone
how as humble male,
a propensity prevailed to secrete testosterone,
yet lament childhood's end,
an unhealthily docile boyhood
never realizing inclusion
nor fraternizing with classmates,
a stark realization throughout mein kampf.

Hence an (often feeble attempt)
to recaptcha forsaken interpersonal opportunities
when positive circumstances
appear palpable courtesy
interest exhibited toward yours truly,
or more particularly
his satisfactorily scribbled writings.

Overindulgence exuding profuse gratitude
most likely counterproductive
to teasing fledgling friendship
ofttimes recklessly voicing
expressing premature ejaculations
of amorousness linkedin
to profusion of unbounded love
invariably lobbing blitzkrieg
of desperation to undermine latent
intrigue housing initial sentiments

never vouchsafed tactile rapport
with author of these words,
whose impetuousness additionally pronounced
by inclusion of mine
America Online username
available after further correspondence
to sincere respondent
in immature hoop dreams to elicit
fantasy realization to strike up rapport.

At such hint of romance and elusive
fine prairie home companion to acquire,
I want to burst into song
with attendant accompanying acapella choir
oblivious reader would become jaundiced
regardless creative rhyme and reason,
where Rita meter maid,
actually a robot contrived thanks
be to artificial intelligence
within blink of her
sophisticated electronic eye
notices digital timer

precious minutes to display
favorable compression, depression,
disadvantageous expression,
irreversible impression,
malapropos progression,
et cetera didst expire,
who ofttimes referenced prior
experienced being flummoxed,
when few and far between
interpersonal scenarios embarrassingly
forfeited, kindled explosive charge
as if sparking electricity
issued from a shorted wire.

Amour propre frankly zapped
analogous to how swollen balloon
punctured or loosed from fingerhut
erratically zips thru air
flitting to and fro hither and yon
resembling how
on two separate occasions
witnessed bat out of hell or cowbird
similarly swooped dipped and dove
within our house got trapped,

(possibly fell thru fireplace flue),
whereby mother dearest shrieked
simultaneously swatting
(the only mammal
in the world that can fly)
nsync with rebel yell
(on par with exemplary performers as:
Swallowtail, the Flying Garbanzos,  
Wild Asparagus.

Within that milieu
of barnstorming hoopla,
I got me a wife
(currently taking her siesta),
though upon first setting foot
yours truly stumbled as with two left feet,
but mastered the following called steps
and routine became cakewalk.  

HOW TO CONTRA DANCE:

     Ask a partner (yea, that lonely looking gal or guy), who can never refuse to kick up heals in this rollicking shenanigan – the rumor holds that said activity the most fun one can have with his/her clothes worn.

     The caller will usually do a walk thru, which begins with the first two couples closest to the stage crew of lively musicians (frequently filling the makeshift hall with music aligned the genre of irish jigs and reels) beginning to pair off.

      After couples one and two (nearest the band) complete their quartet, this process (sans participants coupling off) continues until the foot of the line.

     Actually each duo of dancers within the foursome nearest or furthest from the podium dons the role of  “first and second” couple respectively.

     The walk thru can be helpful, especially for those unfamiliar with this social activity, which encroaches on the ordinary comfort zones because eye contact plus physical hand to hand fusion necessary.

     Many of the routines utilize various combinations of approximately a couple dozen unique moves, where each distinct extemporaneously choreographed fancy footwork utilizes a unique variation of such movements.