Eye, Fly, Awry in this Landscape of Words,

They say don’t feed the birds, you encourage

dependence, promote non-native species.

who knew, it seemed such a harmless lark.

And what is the result of my two week vacation,

starvation throughout Brentwood stretching to

Dalhousie and Charlewood, or is it more widespread.

They do fly after all and we go through a lot of seed,

will they be dropping in Shanghai and Topeka,

and if not mass starvation, perhaps delinquency.

The whole of bird society breaking down, begging,

sexual license, belling cats, downing power lines

pushing each other into the air intakes of jets.

Or could it be positive, native species returning

Bluebirds, Martins sundry Warblers all jostling

wildly for the vacant nesting boxes and bird baths.

Maybe we should think big, Passenger Pigeons,

Carolina Parakeets, Labrador Ducks, who knows

what these misplaced Weaver Birds were up to.

Maybe we will see the great brown spurts of Bison

moving out of the river valleys with their attendant

packs of Grey Wolves and lumbering Plains Grizzlies.

And if I stop feeding the sleek Black Squirrels

that hang like misshapen fruit from my feeders,

what can I get for that?

                                                                                      Guy

                                                                     

by Max

The Cat Wishes to Use the Pen

To write doubtless,

about the space under the rug where he keeps things and

the spot under the coffee table where he also keeps things

including himself, dreaming of jungle, he would like to

immortalize lurking unseen.

Unless he wants a drink in which case he will write

of the white porcelain tub where he sits demanding

a drink from the faucet. Or yowling through the house

until someone follows him to his dish to witness

the wonder of a feeding cat.

He would include a triumphant inventory of the

clawed furniture, the red leather chair, the sofa, the

good  Lazy Boy. The declawed cat broke lamps but he

is all about fabric, sweaters, wedding dresses,

comforters and of course the good Lazy Boy.

He would surely write about laying across a warm chest

with one paw extended purring happily. But there will be

no mention  of the small white dog who sniffs his butt,

let him write his own poem.