Avian Moon

Once as a woodpecker flew to my garden,
he pecked away at a tomato stake.
Then when I came out to usher him onward,
he pecked my hoe and my hose and my rake.

I put my hands on my hips as I grimaced,
he looked at me with an evil-eye stare.
I said to shoo as I waved my hand briskly;
he pecked away as if he didn’t care.

So I went inside to gather composure,
(I was amazed at the gall of the bird.)
Yet before composure settled inside me,
pecking on my kitchen window was heard.

He saw me shake my fist at him abruptly;
there in bird beak was a hint of a grin.
I wrapped the glass with my knuckles intently,
but he just hovered to take it all in.

I felt my face flush like garden tomatoes,
acid in stomach began to accrue.
I yelled, “You pecker!” or some such expression,
then like a red devil flyer, he flew.

Hoping that he had winged off to the forest,
I sighed as I strode to go check my mail.
But on my box perched a bird bold as iron,
facing away from me shaking his tail.


24 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
March 9, 2014