Their Score – By Tom Squitieri

The birds again
Fly up and sit on the corner
Of the railing on the deck.
They decidedly turn their heads to their right
To look at me through the writing window
They have little patience
And ruffle their displeasure
That food has not yet been scattered for them

It is a slow morning of melding,
I tell them.
They remain stern.
The coffee still needs to dance in me,
I plead.
They glare.
They refuse to sing again
Until breakfast is served

The sunrise offers new colors
To them
Even that, an unsuccessful cajole.
Squirrels wait anxiously;
They know they get leftovers.

So, soon seeds sown.
Sunrise can exhale
Landscape tells me its message
And magic songs follow