eating my 4-minute eggs, my 2 veggie sausages, my whole-wheat toast,
out my front window, a passing school bus’ rumblings
launch a jumble of wings.
Our annual spring rite in full swing.
When cedar waxwings swarm on my holly bush
to gorge on its red berries.
Like Hitchcock’s The Birds,
an ear-full of them, their beaks
spotted with scarlet drops, swoop down.
My eggs cold, my plate abandoned.
I stand at the window, eyes flitting from branch to branch,
at this orgy, this blood-red frenzy.
For more on Ken Wheatcroft Pardue, please see our Authors page.
Amarillo Bay 