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Breakfast
by David Hill21 degrees.
The morning grass looks stiff, brittle.
I watch a cardinal at the feeder,
his little red Mohawk stuck straight up.
He skillfully cracks a sunflower seed
and extracts the meat.
His shiny black eye
watches me through the glass.
I like to think we are friends,
maybe even brothers.
In the swivel chair,
I drink coffee from a thick mug,
eat a buttered apple Pop-tart,
my sparse gray Mohawk stuck straight up.
01/14/2012 Author's Note: two proud peacocks
Posted on 01/14/2012
Copyright © 2025 David Hill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 01/14/12 at 05:59 PM Nice piece - love the Mohawks on both of you. I envy you having cardinals. |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 01/14/12 at 11:08 PM Photogenic imagery. Outstanding. |
| Posted by Jody Pratt on 01/15/12 at 08:26 AM Haha, I wasn't really expecting this poem to turn out to be what it is. I like it! |
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