There are vultures in the bird bath,
An offer not meant for them
But for the pretty songbirds
To wash up, proper and prim.
I run off to tell mama
Of the misdeed in the garden.
She turns to me in disbelief,
“Child, I beg your pardon?”
“The bath,” I say, “for the robins,
The warblers, and the chickadees,
Has been invaded by marauders,
Big, black, bald, and ugly.”
Mama looks out the window,
Dishwater dirty on her arms,
"You let mama’s birdies be,
They are doing you no harm.”











