The bluebirds didn’t come around this spring,
when they were needed most. Their nesting bottles
are empty, and my yard bereft of azure.
I miss the males battling their reflections,
and chasing nosy chickadees away.
I miss the brilliant rust and blue surprises
I’ve come to count on, and I have to wonder:
Is it climate change that drove them elsewhere,
or did they find a home somewhere nearby?
Or maybe bluebirds know the time has come
to hunker down and make themselves unseen,
to hide from us, and keep their families safe.
The happiness the bluebird represents
has slipped away—from me and from the world;
perhaps the bluebirds know this. All the same,
I wish that they would come back to my window;
I need the cheer of feathers, the hope of wings.

Diane Elayne Dees

If you have any thoughts on this poem, 
Diane Elayne Dees would be pleased to hear them.