by David Hill
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 © 2023 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!