When spring rolls in so does he,
like a man just off the train
fiddle on his back, whistlin’ down the track
songs he stole from somebody.
He’s weaving bluebird melodies
with sparrow trills and warbler revelries,
on my backyard fence with much ado.
Like a boy at a coffee shop open mic
guitar in hand and skinny jeans blue.
Just hoping some star-eyed girl
will laugh and smile, hair all curled.
Hawk calls and shrike squalls,
sittin’ in the leaves.
but if you ask him about it, he’ll say
all artists are thieves.”