I suppose they have to, small as they are.
But maybe it's delighted curiosity
that keeps them watching up, night after night,
through the least lighted crack between drapes.
I can't kick the sheets aside, on a hot night,
without thinking some pervert bluejay is gawking.
And that pigeon who favors the windowsill --
what exactly does he have in mind?
Voyeur sparrows, peeping finches, crows
(surreptitiously quiet) come closer, closer,
well within focus-length. I suppose
there's no need for worry, though --
how can they spill the beans? But what if
(what when) some damned scientist learns
at long last to decipher birdsong.
Isn't that a knowing smirk
in the eye of that swooping he-cardinal?
And how like a snooping reporter
those jays seem, now that I look more closely.