Broke

Sitting quietly in the den,

sipping my morning coffee,

deciding between poetry and

the L.A. Times crossword.

Suddenly a loud thump,

from the kitchen,

all too familiar.

It can only mean one thing:

a broken window or

a broken neck.

A quick dash and glance,

no shattered glass.

A slanted peek at the patio,

no broken bird.

No birds at all at the feeder.

Well, one, a cooper’s hawk,

a big one, smiling that smile

through its eyes.

Missed that one, it seems to say.

Next time.

Oh, and thanks for the feeders.

I’m always hungry.