Here we go again folks! It’s National Poetry Month. Here’s hoping I have enough brain cells to keep up the pace. Here’s Day One:
A feather flutters past the window followed
by several more causing me to look up
from doing the dishes just as the birdsong
takes a dark turn, more screech than serenade.
Then I see them, scrapping, like a couple
of belters after too much drink. Going for it
they were on top of the whirly-gig,
their balance impeccable, considering.
Two wood pigeons with an axe to grind.
The wee birds look on from the safety
of the fence, although their chirps sound
awfully like goading to me. Then a squawk
rips through the air like a broken trombone
and it’s over. One flies one way, one flies
the other, and the show is over. Who knows
what caused it, but the cat knows more than
she’s letting on. I know that look.
~The H Word~
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