Ballad of the Birds

It is a familiar story;
the fruit beckons, the bird obeys,
ignoring warnings of shotgun blasts, bullets
ripping past silken wings.

The bird can't be blamed,
seeing only pockets of blue from the sky,
circles of ripeness, fields and fields full.

The farmer sighs, rubs his eyes, sticks
two more shells in the chamber.
Less birds wouldn't arouse this anger.

He is willing to sometimes share with a stranger.

Locusts make him lose his senses;
he'll shoot shells as long as his gun dispenses.

The ants turn the only profit:
the decomposing husk of a bird,
yellow-tipped feathers, a
tid-bit of meat for the queen.