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Diane GlancyJune 30, 2022

The woodpecker on my gutter sounds like groundfire.
A buzz-saw attack.
An invasion in the eaves.
I look to you, Lord of provision.
Fill my tank with gasoline.
Reload my hope, Jesus.
Bless the birds of sorrow that twitter in my head.
My glory and the lifter of my head.
The birds chirp at the feeder.
Their water bowl is full.
They drink. Jump in.
They splatter bathing in their water bowl.
They set mines along my gutter.
They say their prayers.
They eat safflower. Sunflower. Dried cranberry. Flax.
Peanut. Millet. Hulled pumpkin seed.
Pistachio. Dried raisin.
I eat sugar cookies for breakfast.
I should eat bird seed.
From the window I see one bird chasing others away.
What can I do?
They rush at one another.
Little spit balls.
Spit wads.
Little bullies.
They minister to me.
I see the turbulence of the world in the feeder.
The squabble over territory.
They make a battlefield of my yard.
They jackhammer the eaves.
Squatters. Ungrateful.
I will give them the bill for their seed.

 

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