I can always tell when they've been at it,
by the small limbs and clumps of leaves
strewn randomly about, like a poet
discarding drafts of poems he doesn't like.

I shake my fist complaining,
"You're killing my trees, ransacking
the yard, raiding the bird-feeder, making
life miserable for cardinals and finches."

Then, later in the season, I crane my neck
toward the treetops, and spy five brown tails
dangling from the nest, like they were meant
to be there, like they had a right to be there.

I wonder why I hate them so, maybe I should
rethink that . . . after all, am I not just like them?
Trying to get along in life, doing the best I can
to build a nest in which to cherish those I love?


© by Michael Escoubas.
Used with the author's permission.