Sunday, January 31, 2016

Tinybird is careful

pecking on the deck  at the seed we spread
over the else sustenance-hiding  snow,
Tinybird revels  in the unseasonal feast,
hopping like a miniature dinosaur.

At the glass door, I crouch and watch.
But Tinybird does not wish to be a meal for the gigantic man,
and instantly she spots me,
she flees to the trees.

‘Tis then that I rise,  with grand spreading gesture,
fling open the door,  appear,
and cast  another seed-spray  visibly into the air,
the while  making irenic smoochy-sounds.

Ah, bright herald  of a lighter, loftier world,
Tell me what thou heardest from Saint Francis!

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