I am but a
nuthatch poet
pecking downward
in the January yard
surrounded by death
and gloom,
blue gray
blending into the desolate
landscape,
eking out another day,
a seed, a millet, an acorn
smacked against an oak,
bucking the breeze,
dodging the rain,
black eye bullied,
traipsing in the snow,
my craggy legs
fixed on a fir branch,
completely disregarded, yet
laughing
for no good reason,
a masochistic
speck.