A local crow plucks
woodpecker feathers
from the top rail
by the beak-full,
black and white clumps
shower to the ground—
bare breast exposed
in seconds,
he’s an expert.
Dragon’s teeth like acorns,
acres of oaks unfold
to spill more
into the orchard,
to replace the fallen,
each last gasp still clings
to bark and branch.
Wa-HA-ka, wa-HA-ka, wa-HA-ka
from the distance,
orgies of hilarity
arrive in fours and fives,
dip and coast in awkwardly
to claim these fruit trees—
then party and leave.
Wa-HA-ka, wa-HA-ka, wa-HA-ka.
Myopic sorties, heads full
of the communal, they don’t
seem to know they are targets,
nor recognize the Ca-thunk
of the pellet gun—
new sounds of war that have
the feral cats salivating.
drycrikjournal 