Jill Crainshaw

Fierce. Fire-rimmed eyes.
Zorro. Slashing, slicing.
“Nobody messes with my babies.”

A suitor croons.
Twenty 4 seven. Mimus Polyglottus.
Late night urban rapper man.
Drab-suited hip hop imitator. He covers
100 tunes. 200.
Blackbirds.
Barn swallows.
Sirens. Screeching
tires. Alarming cars.
No song his own. His voice
for her
alone. “Nobody messes with my babies.”

Fierce. Perched
on leafy high horse.
Diving.
Swooping.
Back off, backyard beagle!
Two-ounce feather and beak projectile. Whizzing.
Whirring.
No music now. Battle
cry.
Rasps. Scolds. Trills.
“Nobody messes with my babies.”

Birth.
Fuzzy head ruffled
awake to the world.
She stands guard.
Fierce.
He serenades.
Nestling
solos.
“Nobody messes with my babies.”