Whistler

I might have married a painter,

Therefore his mother. A radar

Detector, a snow-covered

Mountain, a novel

By John Grisham not even

Out yet. No, I wed

The cop directing my rush,

Toot toot, a trainer to test

Agility, a kettle calling

Time to steep. Yes,

But I married this bird you must

Close your eyes to know

At scale, to hear his trills

And fancy arpeggios

Come-come-hithering.

His note of warning.