Stages

by Carol Hamilton

Stages
“. . . by August the birds are practically silent.”
Lisa Mueller

Until this year,
my lovelorn mockingbird
clattered through his store
of stolen songs, desperate,
both day and night, seeking
a discerning female
talent scout.
This year his songs stopped
and the waterfall green
of the overgrown bush
beneath his microphonic branch
no longer sings in white blossoms
but speaks in just
chitters and chatters.
No more call for the mad music
of desire. They are busy
grubbing out grubs, occupied
and sated exhausted by abundance,
not sure if they are ready
more obsessed than ever,
like oxygen–starved climbers
nearing the summit.