Via #Daily Post
Ruler of the roost,
the male flies off with a trill;
his dull-colored mate
waits for twigs brought to the nest;
so who is dominant now?
The grackle calls, and I look out. A month ago, I had never heard of a grackle, and now we greet each other every morning. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of his shy wife. I know his favorite white stone, his sunset habits, his outrage when another male swoops in. I worry about the drying branches on the cypress where they nest. Today, Mr. Grackle followed me around the front yard as I experimented with weed removal methods. He would perch within sight but far out of reach, and then fly in whatever direction I faced to perch again within view. Having used half a bottle of spray and bent the tines of the rake, I learned that the best way to remove weeds from gravel is with the toe of my shoe.
I know there are dogs nearby – I can hear them. The small yappy one left us a little gift on the driveway. Cats have left their pungent marks in the sand by our gate. I know my human neighbors only by the comings and goings of their trash bins and their cars when they enter and leave their garages. I should ask the Grackles for an introduction.