by Tara Bray

It happened last June, same place, same time,

but this year she pecked my back,

twice, after a slew of whoosh & slash.

Bird glare coming for my head.

Until at last I dashed.

I threw a stone at the fence where she perched.

It made a crash, & off she shot. Disappeared.

Not seen since. Such grace to be cleared,

unkissed & yes, relief is bliss.

Tara Bray is the author of Small Mothers of Fright (LSU Press, 2015) and Mistaken For Song (Persea Books, 2009). Her poems have appeared in Poetry, Narrative Magazine, The Southern Review, Shenandoah and New England Review among others. She lives in Richmond, Virginia.