His rage is as red as the plumage he wears,
The cardinal sits by my window and angrily stares.
At his image in the pane of my sliding glass door.
For a moment, until he can stand no more.
His attack is swift and precisely timed,
To ward off his enemy so perfectly mimed.
To guard his territory and his mate so pure,
From an adversary relentless and ever so near.
Day after day, and week after week,
He fights on regardless and never shows meek.
Alas, like El Cid, the cardinal's a fool,
Jousting with windmills, technology's tool.
His rage is his enemy and he never learns,
In the looking glass, himself he scorns.
Copyright 2003 © Ronald W. Hull
View him in action here on Quicktime