by Dorothea Barth ©2010
They scramble by the dozens here to feed
Entangled feathers, pearl and charcoal grey
In search of gifts amidst the unkempt weed
Perhaps some human discards tossed their way
A bit of pretzel, crumbs of once fresh bread
Uncooked spaghetti left to pulverize
They battle loud, but grief they soon forget
Content with just a portion of the prize
Their bellies full, they're free their wings to flex
We humans with our taste for finer fare
Must strategize survival more complex
Sustained our struggle, home or heart to spare
For warm bread, wine, and pasta cooked just right,
We toil each day and then forsake the flight
Copyright 2009 Dorothea Barth. All rights reserved.