The birds in the backyard often look there for food
and it seems they're doing so lately in a happier mood;
it was just the other day when I mowed the grass
so now they can move easily over it again and pass.
Their activity is done habitually each and every day
and watching them closely seems as if they're at play.

They scrounge on the soil with their beaks and feet
competing at times for some bite and morsel to eat.
When disturbed by a sound they fly up into any tree
away from the threat of danger they scamper and flee.
A human presence would be enough to get them going
particularly when heading in their direction knowing.

It's a bit of a delight to see them at play in their quest
doing what they all have to do to survive hunger's test.
I used to feed them some crumbs on a regular basis
which became a habit for me to them as in an oasis.
Together with water left in a plastic bowl for a drink
they'd a few things going for them one would think.

It was only after the local cats caught onto the idea
with their basic instinct, that food or game, was near.
One of them would come around and hide in the grass
crouching there patiently for the right moment to pass;
if the birds were unaware they would fly down to eat
of the crumbs left for them so their hunger could beat.

The cat seizing on the opportunity then would by surprise
spring up and race after them as food or game in its eyes.
There would be a mad scramble and loud flutter of wings
as the birds, escaping from that danger a predator brings,
would scatter and fly away as fast as they could to where
they'd be relatively safe from the clutches of death there.

Sometimes when looking out the back window I'd see
a cat roaming in the backyard in the shadows of a tree;
this would be enough warning for me to raise the alarm
and get out to try and keep those local birds from harm.
I would do this by chasing the cat away over the fence
so the area would be clear again for the birds I'd sense.
_____

Little lamb, lone in the brush
Without a mother’s feed.
Who is to groom the gloss
Of her delicate clothing?

Little lamb, who sings to me,
Unlettered melodies,
Why does she wag forth
These eyes of rust—
In pensive gloat ache
Sipped sinews of her throat?

Little Lamb, bleating to bleed,
Ventures frail, tender limbs
Deep within Tophet’s Vale.
Meek, she slips in buried sheets.

Little Lamb, orchid chewed to root
Bask and bathe the moon
Twixt her thighs.
Splayed upon pastures
Nourished with tears.

Wine spilled into the milk of being.
She drinks the rich grain.

Green twisted in bone
Moss growing on stone
The forest floor overgrown
Tree's groan and moan
A predator on its own
It makes its presence known
Its scars are clear and shown
Letting out a long howl
It continues its prowl
With a low growl
Overhead warns an owl
On this quiet night
The moon shines bright
Watching the fight
Blood shining in the light
~18/4/21