Black-capped chickadees stormed
The ornamental plum
In a trilling, chirping,
Peeping, scratchy, tweeting,
Whistling ruckus of lives
Hungry to keep living.
This was not a human
Story, old fairytale
In which magic birds talked
To a child or a fool,
A sage, monk, or poet,
Though a human wrote this.
This was a chickadee
Narrative, in which birds
Gathered at a good tree,
Ate their fill, greedily,
Signaling all the while,
Then looked for their next meal.
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