Atilla the Hum,
Edenic in his serenity,
perches in the scrub brush,
hawking the four feeders
spaced on the corners
of the aviary feeding zone
I’ve filled with seed and suet feeders,
apple slices scattered in the grass
and four red, sugar-water bulbs,
spotted with yellow flowered plastic tubes.
He is locked on to those flowers,
Top-Gun-Tom-Cruise in a dog fight,
in a strange mix of fierce focus
and the gentle whispers of breeze
exhaling in the pines.
Comes an unsuspecting intruder,
or a daring returnee
into His realm?
He strikes with spoiled child savagery,
defending his hoard,
one far greater than he,
ever in his life,
Natures constant, generous bounty
is a myth on which we rely.
But this pip-squeek piratical dictator
shows us the lie.