The Heist



Two grey-blue mockingbirds
alight on my cherry tree,
and set up their look-out;
the squatting male belches
shrill, harsh warnings, his
screeching song feigning pain
to make the gold-finch
and robin flee in alarm,
while Bonnie to his Clyde
picks at my ripe cherries and
knocks one to the ground;
flitting lightly down, she arises,
all Betty Boop
red lips pouting
between pointed beak,
as together they make their get-away,
high into the cottonwood,
beyond the reach of my constable cat,
to divide the fruit of their crime.


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