Christopher David sits;
picks compact'd dirt from his
sweat-smeared brow and

'neath his fingernails
are mini-mounds of stray eyebrow filaments, his dermis
harboring hot afternoon dust and smog from the neighboring city,

the pheromones draw
horse flies to his temple;

i often quiz myself as to whether or not was it my fault that i didn't

stop him. . .stop him;

all it wanted to do was protect its babies; had no idea that Christopher David was a friend,

not a foe so why didn't i

stop him. . . .stop him

from grabbing that old
rust'd be-be gun out from under the broken globe of the world behind that stack of withering Britannicas,
hiding places on dust-cover'd leaves places where Christopher David so yearned for escape beyond the confines of his fenced-in finality;

and being jealous of the robin,
my Christopher David felt he was being attacked by Goliath,

attacked by one who knew not of his diagnosis for neither he nor the rambunctious robin understood

each others position,

each saw the other as

a threat. . .a threat,

neither thought to call a truce,
both were duly armed with what they felt was "proper protection"

claws
and beak
and stick
and broom

and when broom wasn't enough to make the mother redbreast understand that Christopher David also knew the call of the wild,

the survival of the fitest,

both knew the pang of an empty stomach,
neither realized that one could provide worms and seed, while the other could provide another generation of natural beauty,

beauty that never had a chance to see the world;


It was hard burying that robin. . .

a quivering body with tri-chamber'd heart-turned-cold that night,

babies-2-Be, devoid of a mother's feathers

but the ground where the mother fell was warm in decomposed repose, neck snapp'd by the jolt of one small golden pellet

i recall seeing the unarmed bird plummet and flutter for its life. it was hard to divide my loyalty between Christopher David and the mother with whom I too could relate. . .
a mother who also wanted to share the splendor of the earth, a chance to see the world,

and as I found a spot by the rosebush,
soft and tender from decaying leaves and twigs i created a soft earth nest for Mother Redbreast. . .and a brick from a fallen tenement resting in the soil as a headstone where the sun sets
during Eve;

we all reckon that Christopher David may not 've been all that straight in the head. . .

but hardly did he ever miss his target.
Cynth'ya Lewis Reed at the Authors Den