The grey thief who plunders
my backyard bird feeder has returned.
Tail aloft and twitching, he cocks
his head, apprising the new situation.
I've moved the feeder farther out
the branch, strung another baffle
on the cord. I doubt it will succeed.
I am contending with a relentless robber.
His appetite will doubtless prevail against
my latest stratagem.
Is it time to quit,
to acknowledge, at long last, that,
as in life, there are inevitabilities
we are helpless to resist, like
the slow but certain erosion of our flesh,
the mounting accumulation of loss,
the certainty of grief?
Perhaps. Perhaps.
But if the furry bandit wins again,
maybe I could . . .
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