Birdsong

Filigreed partiti greet
the sunbeams, appealingly antique:
speedy, secretive Vivaldis
key the trees with piccoli,
sweep the eaves with tutti suites
that leave easy sheeted sleepers’
dreams discreetly incomplete.
One weary steeple creeper,
keeper of a peevish three,
piqued by the ceaseless beseeching
peekaboo of her greedy trio
for eked feasts of meaty beetle
or sweet beaks of feeder seed,
cheats for the merest cheeky beat
in her careening, keen career,
wreaks her feces on the screen.