PLAYING GOD

It takes concentration
to write poetry and shoot
woodpeckers at the same time—
glass of red beside a young
Valley Oak loaded with acorns.
They slip in when your head is down
to yellow paper—yackety-yak
and stir the leaves as kittens wait
for something good to fall from the sky.
The bushtits believe there is a god
when we turn the misters on at six,
come flitting in a bunch to bathe
quickly.

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