A tree bush full of chickadees or maybe
oriels, finches
something of the sort all
chatting as we pass by, purposefully
predatory
cats playing with their prey.
We try to run them off like seagulls,
we seek squawks.
The little ones are apathetic
they turn their acorn heads and spy with
caviar eyes sink back
into the crosshatch of camel covered twigs
and we stare back shaking branches shaking
primal yearning into the air shaking
instinct out our shoelaces waking
those little birdies out of their mono-
emotional hideout.
If I was a bird, I say, as I watch their silhouettes
char and fade under the glare,
I would aim my poop for people's heads play
games like that all day surely
there must be some more fun perk to flying than
fleeing.
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