Woodpecker

A Gila Woodpecker hooked on a fan palm,

close to the top, is done pecking:

Sits there, soaking in morning sun,

as pretty to God as ever,

but going nowhere— not hungry, 

not randy, not tired, nothing.

Instead of hammering, he sits,

then moves around the bole to the shade.

A partner comes. They’re a foot apart.

The partner is more ambitious:

Circles the tree, ascends, pecking,

harvesting something, then flits off 

to another palm nearby.

My guy doesn’t give a shit.