Brood Parasites

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The tools of the trade:

Cryptic plumage,

Hawkish mannerisms,

And a steady supply,

Of child soldiers.

The cuckoo lies in wait,

Standing stealthily,

Avoiding strife,

With her victim’s eventual lapse,

She strikes.

Though they care not for their neighbors,

They do have a knack,

For finding babysitters,

Despite their reputation,

As impolite guests.

The screaming chick,

Sounds like the clutch,

Of hungry children,

It jettisoned.

On the other hand,

In the other hemisphere,

The cowbird makes little effort,

To make its egg inconspicuous,

Instead it relies on mob mentality.

The mom pays a visit,

To her nest of choice,

Which will be destroyed,

At the first sign of resistance,

To their alimony.

If there’s any acrimony,

It isn’t apparent,

As the often very different parent,

Raises the imposter.

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IMAGE CREDITS: 

https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/bird-and-wildlife-guides/bird-a-z/c/cuckoo/

http://jasonking.net/site/brown-headed-cowbird/

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Hello, Sunshine!

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I sigh,

From where I lie,

Chin held high,

While my eyes imbibe,

The flowing sky,

And all is right.

It’s an unusually bright,

Afternoon,

Already.

Leaves of grass,

Are weaved,

Underneath,

My back-

My hair and clothing,

Have dandelion seeds,

Clinging to them.

“The garden returns,

The flowers bloom, the weeds rise,

All from the sun’s rays.”

I sit up,

And feel the light,

Caress my face,

Hit my hair,

Warm my shoulders.

“Hello, Sunshine!

I’m glad you’ve stopped by,

Thanks for everything.”

I won a short story contest!

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I’m pleased to announce that I’m the winner of Short Tale Shrew’s 2016 spring microfiction contest! You can visit their page by following the following link.

http://wp.me/p6PWc4-4f

And be sure to follow them as well! There will be more contests, and they post excellent advice pertaining to short fiction writing.

Tilt-A-Whirl

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Grated steps,

Peeling paint,

And a cardboard ruler,

Showing the height requirement.

Pewter pistons,

Hidden hinges,

Standing cushions,

Abraded by time,

And centrifugal force.

Flashing lights,

Around the ridges,

And a long line,

Of patrons,

Brandishing bracelets,

Holding soft drinks,

Plush prizes,

And crumpled tickets.

The ride spins,

Blinking like a UFO,

Ready to launch,

And fly faster than light,

But it never does.

You stumble off,

A little dizzy,

To look for a new thrill,

“One more time?”

She says.

Your hair is mussed,

From the last six times,

She said that.

“Why not,”

You say,

As you turn back,

And stand,

At the end of the line,

Again.

Evergreen

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It’s not that pine trees,

Have a lot to hide,

They just don’t have much,

To show.

Standing solid,

Solemn,

Stable,

Their needles as green,

As they ever were.

Crows, for being draped in black,

Are not very stealthy,

Rather garrulous,

Cawing in threes,

Bobbing, posturing,

Perched in the trees.

The rusted-out fire pit,

Doesn’t do very much,

In the day,

Besides,

Retain,

Past rain.

I’m sitting on the old bench,

That’s been here,

Since before I was,

Thinking about how,

The more things change,

The more they stay the same.