by Ann E. Wallace
In Australia, the magpie
pipers have sounded the alarm.
Strange singing sirens lure
us to belated attention,
whistling their learned panic
cry as we lean in and stare.
How clever they are, these
crows turned mocking jays,
turned canaries in the fires.
We pull out our phones, press
record and listen in awe
at beaked imitation of man
made warning calls. Months,
years after the flares and shouts
of scientists, of firefighters,
went unseen, unheard,
the birds learned too
late to speak our language.
As the heat swells, billows
to flame, and sucks each breath
dry, hot angry licks sneer
and force us to the water’s edge.
And the rescue boats come
too late, too few to heed
the magpies’ urgent call.
Ann E. Wallace has a new poetry collection, Counting by Sevens, available from Main Street Rag, featuring work about the realities and joys of life in contemporary America, motherhood, and illness. Recently published pieces in journals such as Mom Egg Review, Wordgathering, Snapdragon, Rigg
