The Last Day of March by Alan Gann

I woke with an unfettered morning
dressed in a long-sleeved t-shirt and my old blue jeans
laced boots, grabbed binoculars
and headed for the park
just like I had done so many other mornings.
Through patchy clouds and a light fog
birds chattered and chirped,
flit from brush to bush to leafed-out branch.
I duly noted a low-flying marsh-hawk
and gaudy cardinals
flirting as if it were the second week of spring.
I peered into the thick tangle
looking for the short, notched tail
that distinguishes savannah sparrow from song,
prowled thicket for towhee and thrasher.
As the sun began to burn through
blue birds emerged from their boxes
and the air was filled with swift and swallow
darting and diving over the field.
For three hours till an upstart
with chestnut back and white eyebrow
hops onto a rotting log and calls
empty-camp, isn’t it, isn’t it—
empty-camp, isn’t it, isn’t it—
for three hours I had not thought
of Michael, or Jack, or Ed,
but now all I can do is glare and remember
and finally
when this silence cannot stand any longer
I yell fuck you.
A nearby jogger hurries on,
empty-camp, isn’t it, isn’t it—
and the tiny wren vanishes into the reeds.