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by David Hill

21 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.


Author's Note: two proud peacocks

Posted on 01/14/2012
Copyright © 2024 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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