seems depressed.

His usual courting call
ending in a rapid, repetitive note
tuit-tuit-tuit-tuit-tuit-it-it-ititititit
is now short, by more than half.

He never arrives at the final flourish
his pièce de résistance
his pleading, staccato insistence
for a mate
tuit-tuit-tuit-tuit
resigned to an empty, quiet fade
on this still-early, spring morning.

My usual complaint of his song
so loud and abrupt
tuit-tuit-tuit
even before first light
shifts to curiosity.

Has he given up?
No female answering his desire
to feed her seeds, beak-to-beak
in their first lovers’ waltz?
tuit-tuit
Is his dark mask too large?
Was he not the earliest bird?
tuit
Are there fewer females?

His pitched, alarmed request
which has daily stirred me into my
worry for this world
gives over to a new concern
tui
threat level, red.

I sit up, wait and listen
to nothing

save the brightening day