Little Mr. Intention
How could the little titmouse know,
holding seeds between his toes,
that further out along the limb,
he makes the leaves twitch on their stems?
His tufted head pounds up and down;
the careful listener hears the sound,
of sunflower seed yielding up its heart
to a pecking, determined dart.
The poplar leaves, out at the tip,
tremble gold beneath each dip
of beady eyes and feathered crest,
before they drift to autumn's rest.