In the brush of sun, 
it was bright as a stoplight, 
haughty beak raised 
like a tiny traffic cone,
feathers following
the small puffs of its chest, 
each red plume waltzing 
with the next like rose petals 
moved by a delicate wind.

It was there, I swear, 
at the edge of my vision
as I was at the end of my tether 
with some project now forgotten, 
a bloody thumbprint 
glowing in verdant grass, 
a sharp-cut stop sign. 

Its dark gaze met mine
like goosebumps meet skin,
flitting but focused, 
narrowing the world down 
to a shivering caress. 

With a tilt of its head, 
it watched me watch it, 
sniper dots in my eyes.

In its, two headlights, searching.