Ice Water and the Mockingbird

Across the asphalt wet with mirage he goes,
mockingbird walking with quick stick legs.
This same bird sang last spring,
but today he's far too hot to sing,
hurries with his head down,
beak open (he doesn't see me),
wings raised,
and I thought I was suffering,
sitting inside on the hangar floor,
a glass of ice water at my lips.

I rattle the cubes;
he snaps an eye in my direction.
I offer him the glass,
but his wings burst into grey-white fans,
and off he goes,
above the brown grass.


(Arkansas Magazine, Arkansas Democrat, August 10, 1986)