Peewee’s under the eaves, 
its song wheezier than phoebe’s—

both of them inside my head, 
I think they use the same nest—

just as catbird and thrasher 
are wheezier than mockingbird,

just as mother’s wheezier 
than sister, father more mocking

than his sons. It’s hell 
in full sunlight to see things

out of the shade. Glaring, 
hurtful to the eyes. Asthmatic gasps

come from the bedrooms, first sister’s, 
then mother’s, where father flies

between them. Little competitions, 
border songs and nesting sites,

and who’s to bed with whom. 
I see it clearly now, lower the field

glasses, and listen. Listen hard. 
Yes, he’s singing, too. A mocking

song, to keep his sons from the breeding 
ground. Flitting between two nests,

for all he’s worth, flitting, mocking. 
To keep us fledglings, always. Always.