Oats & Feathers

A man shot three magpies dead in my front garden

I was listening to the Beatles and dancing while my dog slept and judged me in his dreams.

They always used to peck and poke at the olives I'd try to make

Must've liked the taste.

Strange, cause they're native birds you're not meant to hate on them,

But since I snuck their favour, he must've been jealous.

I didn't like him anyway, since he'd always complain that my grass was better fertilized

It isn't my fault he tried planting tomatoes in wintertime.

At some point, he had to have realised that I was feeding them oats

Because making the usual mix they liked wasn't worth their inconsistent visits.

I buried the three shot magpies under the great reaching gum tree the government had tried to spray paint orange.

But I had rallied the troops and they'd been sent running, while I put their chainsaws out for hard rubbish.

I didn't realise how simple it was, to whistle and have a bird eyeball you, like "What's next?"

I guess having relationships crumble almost constantly will mean you expect much less than loyalty.

I'll miss their whistles and whines

Because I could echo them and they would tilt their heads

And stare at me as if they were trying to decipher the meanings within the gibberish I had always longed to speak out loud.

Rolled oats they liked,

And every time I smiled because they would call each other down

That excited expectation for a treat waiting to meet their greedy beaks.

Noisy buggers.

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