There was a safari guide in Botswana
who was quizzed on the species of fauna.
“I don’t mean to be rude,
but there’s Huge, Fast, and Food —
so, just three types of beast in Botswana.”
There’s a crow outside my window.
Can it see me through the muslin?
Could its feathered form be winnowed —
spirits shed by baker’s dozens
until remained only a faint dot?
Does it ask the same of me, or not?
On my street, not a thing happens
uncaptured in birds’ eyes.
Hawks sit on streetlamps or corners —
swivel-cowled remote spies.
And the crows lurk by the murder,
swooping to the sidewalk.
Pigeons strut and flap-glide down low —
masters of the sly gawk.
Add myriad flitters and sitters —
and those who seem occupied by
a playful mating dance.
They’re squatters, stalkers, and spotters —
but who watches the watchers?