Little Drop of Wickedness

Ruckus around tie bird feeder—too greedy mockingbirds mugging a cardinal— 
and a small wind whirling 
                                        up from the creek beyond the cul-de-sac, 
but no other disturbance, no ado, 
no alarm but my heart going off at the presence of my guest. 

This morning, yes, a visitor under my pear tree and cherries, 

when I walked out to read my novel under my canopy of blossoms and leaves, 
a visitor beside my table, a stranger, 
                                                          unexpected, unnerving, coiled 
like a wreath on a root-k nee. 

I edged under the canopy 
and sidled toward my chair, and his spoon head bobbed into my shadow. 

Odd to say how benevolent he looked and languid 
with his fat jaw 
                        draped over the hour-glass ridge of his back, 
and how gently he offered his gaze, 
                                                          how congenial his greeting, 
as though all my fears were fallacy, 
and the history of evil, 
                                    some pathetic bamboozle.

  ▪ ▪