# 309
The kudzu is dying.
It is losing it's vigorous grip
on the pines and oaks.
I think I may be able to see
the mountains through the trees
any day now.
The rain is washing
the leaves away
to reveal the trees' true forms.
Their lanky, naked bodies
will stand
strong,
steady,
proud
through the winter months.
But the kudzu's roots run deep.
They'll seek and find
their warmth
underground
and wait for the time
of their merciless ambush
to come again.
This morning I began to clean up, a rare behavior when I
heard a noise outside the door.
I heard Jays squawking and several other birds announcing
their intentions.
Including the loud call of a woodpecker, louder than anyone
I'd heard before
Upon the tree trunk was a ten inch red headed black and
white, but slightly tinted green and red
bird pecking at the abundant insects on the trunk with jays
and crows, a squirrel or two
yelling at him to go away.
He was not deterred from his feeding.
I took pictures through the screen of the porch, cardinal, a
downy, several wrens
scolded me, told me to go away, but he did not seem to mind
until I opened
the screen door to get closer, my lens pointed directly at
his lovely red hooded cape.
He flew up into the vine tangled forsythia, red berries
camouflaging him.
I sat down on the front stoop to wait for his return,
counted the other birds
talked to the squirrels, waved to my neighbors, but did not
see my Red Bellied Woodpecker again.
Was he like my true love who probably flew into my life
years ago just
long enough to distract my good intent only to run away
before I could comfort his nervous soul.
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