In the black California sandsYou walk patrolSearching for scraps,Searching for food,Leaving web-prints.The sun never burns your white face red.Staring out to sea,Your black bead eyes look tired.Need some sun shades?

Old man of a birdStands unsteady and knock-kneedWatching me with disapprovalYour white feathers thinning on top,Eyes small in your weathered face.I admire your willowy stance. You stare at me.I laugh at you.

A flower and a bird that matchWho but God would think up that?