Woodpecker

A Gila Woodpecker hooked on a fan palm,

near the top, is done pecking.

He sits, soaking in morning sun,

as pretty to God as ever,

but going nowhere— not hungry, 

not randy, not tired, nothing.

Instead of hammering, he simply sits,

then moves around the bole to the shade.

Aother comes. They’re a foot apart.

The new one is more ambitious:

circles the tree, ascends, pecking,

harvesting something, then flits off 

to another palm nearby.

My guy doesn’t give a shit.