The woodpecker on my gutter appears like groundfire.
A buzz-saw assault.
An invasion within the eaves.
I look to you, Lord of provision.
Fill my tank with gasoline.
Reload my hope, Jesus.
Bless the birds of sorrow that twitter in my head.
My glory and the lifter of my head.
The birds chirp on the feeder.
Their water bowl is full.
They drink. Leap in.
They splatter bathing of their water bowl.
They set mines alongside my gutter.
They are saying their prayers.
They eat safflower. Sunflower. Dried cranberry. Flax.
Peanut. Millet. Hulled pumpkin seed.
Pistachio. Dried raisin.
I eat sugar cookies for breakfast.
I ought to eat hen seed.
From the window I see one hen chasing others away.
What can I do?
They rush at each other.
Little spit balls.
They minister to me.
I see the turbulence of the world within the feeder.
The squabble over territory.
They make a battlefield of my yard.
They jackhammer the eaves.
I’ll give them the invoice for his or her seed.