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Those crows are back here for my plums.
They seem to steer right in here,
For fear there is none.
They can be quite some fun.
You see,
This time of the year,
Plums can be just like rum.
Watch what they’ve done.
They get crowded and rowdy,
Downright bawdy,
Loud yelling,
All around,
Plums felling.
I wish this deck was a little sturdier.
I worry it’ll get wrecked,
Handling this loud drunken murder.
I think the crow knows,
More than it shows.
Bows of my three plum trees,
Bend with such distressful ease,
With the sight of those lightless black eyes,
So do my knees!
The Quail participate in this invasion,
Abrasive alcoholic sedation.
Falling right off the sundeck,
The chic’s jump down after,
In a clutch of laughter.
I’ve just about had it,
Up to the rafters!
Now there is also a squirrel.
I see him slyly sneaking plums on the side,
Stuffs them inside a hole in a burl.
Inside his world,
I’m sure he hides,
Seeds plums and beads,
My lost keys,
And any other shiny things,
He thinks he needs.
Getting himself,
Steadily ready,
To hide down in his hole,
As his world turns cold.
Oh my what a deck.
It’s a wreck.
And if I don’t trek it carefully,
I could quite easily,
Break my neck.
But I must confess,
Near to my window,
I peep at the din,
That autumn’s harvest,
Here has brought in,

It’s a fest:
All the odd features,
Of this eclectic,
Myriad of colorful creatures.

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