Spring is a cackle grackle
ceremony of black wings
fighting over a single seed.
It strikes me a bit like
a political debate
where there’s no moderator
to control a feather duster
storm of opinions.
I swear if they could drink wine
they would be drunk on their own voices
before one sip of cabernet could be swallowed.
Do humans cheat in their chicanery
by stealing their audacity from a bird
who has no fear or care electric wire
could change from a seat into a fryer?
Grackles have so much toxic air in their bombasticity
it is a wonder anything around them can breathe.
©Susie Clevenger 2024
