Late spring, and they come through the woods in a loud squad,
parents and fledglings talking over everything
they happen on, what's good to eat and what will
eat you if you're not as sharp
as your sharp blue crests and tails, hopping or
coasting branch to branch-- hey,
what's this, one of them spots me, ruddering
and perching ten feet off
with a periodic snap.

So now I'm the hot topic--
how nosy I am, forever
peering with those eye-extenders, how
my motives are a mystery and since I sometimes
wear their likeness on my hat I may be Jay
manque (unlike Cooper's hawks and cats, as we discussed
last class) but just the same, remember rule #1,
check him out, check him out, and the rookies
with a hop or swoop calling yup, you bet,
ok coach, gotcha, then all
hitting the main theme more or less at once
with their patented chorus of Fuck Offs.

Yet I have also caught them listening, intent,
with that corvid cock of the head, to the little
hollow bells they hang from needle and twig
as though tasting
as though testing the fit of their smallest voice to the air, connoisseurs of the haiku.