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Tucked behind the blossoms of the ash tree
a canary flaps his fair yellow wings.
Preening them, readying for his feast.

Landing on the beads of the pomegranate
he swells and sings his love song,
dropping his wings low to the ground.

The arced head of his mate peeks from the myrtle,
the white breast and the browned coat gleaming.
She only answers to this voice
for she long searched and slowly decided.

Landing next to him, she gently preens him,
tilting her head and eyeing him with a gleam.
He lowers his head to the pulp beneath him,
breaking through the skin and into the heart.

The red juice coats his throat in richness,
and he offers the droplets on his beak.
His mate accepts them with a ruffle of her feathers,
rubbing his neb affectionately.

Chirping quietly, she flies to the ash,
nestling in the roost of twine and blue ribbon.
The petals of the orange rose are soft beneath her,
and the warmth of her mate subdues.

Settling both, they sing together,
night throwing shadows and luster,
and they sleep as the dead.