A grey explosion in my backyard
as scared squirrels skitter away
and fat mourning doves lumber up
into the warming sky.
I shake the plastic cup of seeds
like a blue baby rattle, hoping
to get them used to, maybe
even anticipate, my morning feedings.
But they’ve learned not to trust humans.
Like I can’t distinguish individual birds,
they can’t tell me from a frustrated
teenager with a BB gun.
And I don’t blame them.
I don’t trust us either.
(For this week’s Living Poetry Prompt.)
