A Poem From Middle Age.

Getting old is for the birds.  

Not the plumed Finches or painted Buntings
But for the steamrolling Doves 
That try to monopolize the bird feeders. 

 Because that's what old feel like some days.

Be the cranky old bully of a Dove.
Chase the bright young upstarts away,
Defend the hard-earned prime perch,
     by the buffet of life.

Just want them to leave me in peace.

Fine to sit where they like,  but not too close.
Not blocking my view.   
Nor anywhere In my field of vision, really.

It's a brave new anti-social world, getting older.

Hey, You! get off the lawn.  
And don't think you can creep back 
When the grey beast falls asleep.

The dark spots on these great grey wings? 

An extra set of eyes. 
They will see everything. 
They have seen everything.

SQUAWK!