Cherry Wars Poem by Glen Kappy

Every spring it's "Cherry Wars."
As payer, planter, tender of the tree, I want owner's rights.
But local cheepers go by "finders keepers."
We got a net one year—too small.
The larger one was overpriced—and how to put it on?

Would I mind to give the birds a little?
But robins feed till bellies bloat and poop is purple!

On their side—numbers—
like a gang of hooligans mugging an old man.
On my side—opposable thumb, bigger brain.
But though they fly when I pursue with screams, gesticulations
they perch on power lines and poplars till I'm gone.

I tried an inflatable owl—
they figured out the ruse in less than an hour.

Not like their feathered fathers who showed deference to Noah
some of these continue gorging even as I stand on ladder, pick my due.
May they never see I pass the ones already pecked
in case they be like boys who wanting not to share
will make a show of spitting in their soda.