The wall outside my window has holes I can see through.
No mortar blocks your corridors between the mossgrown stones.
You crouch in chilly sunshine at its foot. You groom your fur
not knowing that I watch you sitting at your own front door.

You steal my honeysuckle leaves, and whisk them safe within
where owl and hawk can’t reach you; yet they are not mine
so how can you be stealing? I can’t tell the leaves to grow,
nor keep them in the autumn from falling, nor command
the scented sprays to flower for you, nor berry for the birds.
They do it for themselves, as you who nest, short-sighted
inside the drystone wall, will rear your family there.

Without the glasses at my eyes, then I might abdicate
my human power to stare into your world. As you don’t see
me, I would not see you, nor your presence as a trust.