Look at you, sloven shortwings, your nests a dereliction of twigs poked in sludge beyond the gardened soils of the pond. Tourists gather to watch you fornicate, those grub-chain toes scouring oil from plumes: her head dives to avoid his bloodeye leer. Last year I watched you hatch four cuties, bundles of floating chirrups, watched you peck each to death in turn when you tired of them. Still you flirt your jaundiced legs, squabble as you wave your saddle-white heads like liars while scrumping breadcrumbs from goose-beaks. by Rik Roots