The window's in an awful state
Since Mr. Bluebird found a mate
For like the Don of windmill fame
He charges at the window pane.
He sees a rival, blue and bright
Within the glass-reflected light
And, launching into forward flight,
He challenges himself to fight.
Feathers ruffled, sore of beak
He sits atop the birdhouse peak
Alert as ever, keeping guard
Who drives reflections from his yard.