I’m told he sees his own reflection in the glass
as a competitor, a bird he must face down—
I’m not so sure. This morning, there’s the sound
again—despite a sleep-soaked overcast,
the house still dark inside. Thwap!—a blast
of beak so loud it echoes all around
the kitchen where I dump my coffee grounds
into the sink—tap, tap, tap—a last
clump clings to the filter. Thwap!—another
protest. A fierce red warning at the blurred
edge between his world and mine. Thwap!—see?
My outline floats above the sill. His hovers.