I provide bread for them.
You'd think they'd see
That I mean them no harm,
But they fly in a tree
When I come out to look at them.
You'd think they'd fly to me
And land on my finger,
Stare into the eye
Of one who cares for them.
But that might terrify me,
For they're wild little creatures
With feathers for hair
And beady eyes
That stare,
And I'm not God,
So why should they care about me.

-jenn