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WINTER 2018-2019


Tammy Green


The feeder hangs in the yard
To succor the wayward.
Seeds gape from the net stocking.
It proclaims, “Food for all.”
“But not the Grackle,” you say,
“And not the Blue Jay.”
“Mobsters,” you call them, “Bullies.
They chase the smaller birds away.”
Yet when the Cooper’s Hawk
Fixed its sharp talons on the perch and stared,
Prepared to poach the unwary,
You let him fill his regal beak.
“He visits for a week and is gone,”
You say, “Let him carry on.”



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