I turn away

after a few minutes

sickened at what I’ve seen beneath

the deceptively calm hummingbird feeders

swaying above two starlings locked in a death match

as if re-enacting the worst of the WWE

but with no entertainment value, these two

determined to fight to the death

with black winged fury,  a viciousness

I’ve never known birds to possess

the bully pinning his opponent yellow

claws digging into soft feathered breast

beak jabbing into beak, pecking eyes

tumbling lifting spinning flattening

the aggressor constantly on the assault

as I turn back to the window only

to witness not a beating but a murder

I want to go outside and break

it up but fear the fray has gone

too far for there to be anything left

but victor and victim

now and then dried switchgrass

sifts down from the messy nest

in the broken soffit where

she sits a clutch, smugly watches.