Is It Poetry
Skipping through the fence.
Such small chinks on them caught a feather.
Preening as dominant eye's
see the worm into its deep hole.
Blue jays scramble in arguments array.
As two sparrows tug at each end untill it does.
Honeysuckle opens as a book waiting
to be explored by one nature loving child.
Comparing the coloured photographs.
To the one's grandmama gave to him.
Then there fly the crow's.
Those mean birds whom rob the other nests.
As they sit outside my window.
Eating the last baby mocking bird.
All this happeneds
while I watch from my bed, starring out my window.
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