stingers

By Nicholas Pascarella

she looks at me
with a wry smile
like she knows something I don’t.
it’s not condescending,
but protective,
her arms spread wide
or folded above her head
while she sleeps,
feathers feathered,
puffed and flexed when she slows
to steady; glowering, intimidating,
but she is deafening
when she goes anywhere.
she has anger issues, sometimes
fury overcomes her;
her edges get prickly and
she knifes the line,
howling like a banshee
low over the greens.
she drags storm clouds
around on her shoulders
when she moves in anger,
leaving tiny tornadoes
in her arc, and I,
for one,
love it when she’s mad.