-This poem reflects on blue jays gathering acorns in early autumn, when their sharp calls and flashes of cobalt animate the oak before they leave behind only falling nuts and a disturbed patch of leaves.
The blue jays cross the morning yard,
their calls ahead of beating wings,
then cobalt flickers through the oak
where acorns loosen after rain.
They sidestep down the outer limbs,
black bills pry at the loosened caps,
then one lifts over hedge and wall,
an acorn carried in its beak.
A squirrel scolds from higher shade,
one jay replies and cocks its head,
then hops; the branch kicks back and drops
three acorns on the wooden bench.
By dusk, the calls are farther west,
the oak grows dark beside the fence,
and near the wall, one patch of leaves
lies freshly turned above the soil.