The mourning doves sit on the powerline.

They wait for me to vamoose.

They think I don’t know that everytime I leave the garden,

the wild creatures come to feast.

The neat pile of chicken scratch, hidden under the back apple tree,

doesn’t give them a clue.

Nor do the secret water puddles, where they splash and scuffle over their territory

with the squirrels.

The squirrels lay, stretched out in the middle of the scratch.

They stuff their cheeks full.

And then they run full speed up and down the plum trees,

as quickly as a pinball runs through a machine.

They knock fruit everywhere as they demand that the doves take off.

The doves are not discouraged.

They flap their wings and smack the squirrels on the heads.

They waddle around and coo their most threatening coos.

All the while, as the squirrels and doves make their cases,

the sparrows swoop in and quickly eat all the seeds they can.