Mr. Finch came to sing in the backyard this morning
dressed to the nines in a black and gold tux.
How handsome, how stylish, how debonair,
as he took center-stage in a mulberry tree.
With his black cap tipped forward in casual fashion,
he puffed out his chest like a small Pavarotti
and burst forth with a glorious song.
The notes spilled from his throat on ribbons of silver
rising and falling in the sweet morning air;
as pleasant an Aria as ever performed,
and the audience was drugged by its beauty.
The day lilies sleeping by the side of the steps,
rose and opened their mouths’ in awe,
and the butterflies waltzed
with blue and white asters
while the iris cried tears of pure joy.
The pansies lifted their bright colored skirts
and pirouetted around the peonies,
and the garden gnome set down his basket of seeds
to turn cartwheels before the begonias.
The bleeding hearts, dazzling
in the brilliant sunlight,
beat out a rhythmic response,
while the roses so sure of their own distinct beauty
bowed in deference to the finch masterpiece.
And the people, the invisible people,
Sipping cocktails in patio chairs,
raised their glasses high in salute to the finch,
while whistling and cheering “bravo!”
An invisible man turned his attention to me
stroking his invisible moustache,
and with a glint in his eye said,
“another round please,
and one for the bird too, if you would.”