Ptilonorhynchus Violaceus

Feathers line
his brown bower,
a thousand
sticks or more.

He likes
what she likes—

ephemera

           etcetera—

the paler his plumage
the brighter his gifts,

sorted in piles
and arranged:

berries, flowers,
nuts and bones—
even old beer cans,
plastic straws.

But’s it not all
for one bird;
if she likes it,
maybe so
will her sister.

He likes
what shes like,

calling one,
calling all.

_