The Mating Call

Here is a poem I wrote after watching sage grouse play.

A grouse waved his fan of feathery spikes,

Behind his robe of cotton whites,

And strutted across the cracked, dried mud.

He puffed out his yellow globes,

Egg-like sacs below his throat,

And emitted a series of popping sounds,

Daring his buds to the mating ground.

Underneath the sagebrush they played,

But the hens flocked to the one they fancied,

And built their nests with the handsome dandy,

Scattering the losers out of their way.

daylight desert drought dry
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

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