Woodpecker
       

Again he startles me,
mid-stanza,
words left hanging,
rhythm lost
to his rapid-fire knocks,
a crazy Morse code.
I curse this bird
who doesn't know
house from tree.
Three times this morning
I've opened the window,
rattled the blinds,
shouted him away.
He doesn't understand
his one-note scolds
are not the bones
of poetry.
Not oriole,
all color and song.
He can't help
his shadow-gray feathers,
his diligent digging.
He's hungry.
Let him bore
into the wood,
hammer out
o after o after o
in straight little rows
as he hunts for food
he cannot see— is the taste
always a surprise?

Copyright © 2009 Christine Rhein All rights reserved
from Wild Flight
Texas Tech University Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission