My Favorite Bird

I prefer the fence-colored bird
who has no song,
or none that he shares with me.

Each day at dusk he stops by to scold me.
Quietly, with a stiff hop.
He seems to know I’ve wasted the day.

He glares at the sky.
He glares at the earth.
I can’t find his picture in the book.

The Church says
I can be saved but not him.
Is that why he pouts on his cedar post?

A bird so drab
he makes the others look like clowns:
the cardinal, the jay, the black-capped chickadee.

So solemn
he might be one of grief’s angels
or some homesick sentry of the heart.

When I offer him crumbs from my meal,
he flies away in a huff,
his silent cry caught in my throat.