Night Feed

by Charlie Druce

We stand at the door and watch the pale night,
you, my twelve pounds of grackle bird, seagull boy,
oblivious to the moonlight and what lies beyond –
the foxes silently slipping through fences,
robbers waiting in their cars for a gap in their nerves.
A helicopter rides overhead, restless and searching.
It’s all right birdie boy, it’s not us they’re looking for.
But its beam exposes me – how even now
I am preparing you, handing you down my alibis,
already thickening your soft new-leaf skin.
A siren bleeds and the chopper canters away.
You ruffle down in my arms’ nest, eyes closing,
So we leave the garden to its own stealth
and the foxes to their rusty shadows in the wet grass.