Fledglings

Fledglings

By Jamie Foley

Not a natural gardener,

you gamely weed

the asparagus patch

regardless.

In morning,

the plot towers towards sunlight,

feathery, golden, green.

Its girth, fifteen paces to the west lies

in hay fields,

filled with songbirds.

Thin and wide stalks,

like mismatched fellows,

lift upward,

crowd,

jockey,

levitate in a tangle

providing roost for twittering mother birds.

They exchange a secret, early language

a touchstone to the fledglings

waiting in nearby field grass

mouths agape.

You slip on your red

rubber clogs,

a straw hat,

and cloth gloves;

put the Jack Russell on a leash

and open the screen door —

cats first,

mother and two sons.

All of you

set out together into the dew.

A menagerie.

Eyes squinting,

blinking,

noses lifted.

Collectively you yawn

and stretch —

long, low, luxurious stretches

into the gap,

into an expectancy.

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