They are quiet now, the cheep-cheep-cheeps.
They once pipped in earnest when we sounded
like starlings, scrambled to them. Mother or Dad
bird nervous in a nearby tree, worm dangling
from their beak, anxious to drop their load,
go back for more.
We debated their exact location in the old apple:
center of the tree’s gone dead, but you can’t tell
from the blossomed branches pruned tight.
High at the broken crown, or low at the crotch?
We listened close then stuffed white rags in the holes
we could reach.
Don’t be startled by this murder. The birds are
alien, impostors. They steal homes from ones we love
and resist all manner of yelling at them from opened
windows: Out! Out! Get away! Save the seed
for the good birds! We are tribal masters
declaring our territory
thus and so.
/ / /
It’s a start on something I want to work out, how it’s okay to kill some things, but not others. Thought to add something of bin Laden in this, but decided not to.