The Heist

Two grey-blue mockingbirds

alight on my cherry tree,

and set up their look-out;

the squatting male belches

shrill, harsh warnings, his

screeching song feigning pain

to make the gold-finch

and robin flee in alarm,

while Bonnie to his Clyde

picks at my ripe cherries and

knocks one to the ground;

flitting lightly down, she arises,

all Betty Boop

red lips pouting

between pointed beak,

as together they make their get-away,

high into the cottonwood,

beyond the reach of my constable cat,

to divide the fruit of their crime.