I am a kingfisher.
Fishing is what I do.
I don’t know another way to feed my hunger.
I catch fish from brooks, streams, ponds, and lakes.
But in summer most of them dry up.
My throat is parched, my belly hollow.
I search for man-made ponds,
where fish swim plentifully.
But the owner of the pond
doesn’t like me stealing his prized fish.
He shoos me, shouts at me—
“If you come again, I’ll kill you.”
He threatens me, gun in hand.
What can I do?
Starve slowly, or risk a bullet?
I think I’ll take the risk.
At least death will be instantaneous.
