As I climbed my
steps
I saw a puff of red feathers
on the porch,
surrounded by swarming ants
feasting on the once-living cardinal
carcass,
once a pretty bird.
now reduced to insect food.
I reflected. Probable cause of the bird's
demise?
He must have seen himself,
mirrored in our door's storm glass,
seen himself as a sleek, crested rival
flying toward him.
Enraged, he flew against it in attack. He
lost.
I sighed. I understood.When I approach that wicked
glass,
an older, heavy woman often
steps out toward me.
She holds my purse and packages
in her arms.
I admit I've considered attacking her.
Now, seeing the bird's result,
my aggression dims. I'll
make peace with the crone.
After all, she has
to clean the porch.
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