The Taco Hunting Owls of Sacramento
Althea awoke to a swooshing, whooshing sound
and called to Christina in magical, Elven whistle notes
to the crib where she was laying in the arms of sleep.
She yawned, stretched and said “What is it Dada!”
(She couldn’t quite say the word Mama yet)
“I think silly Grandma has left the kitchen window open
and the owls have got in and they’re rifling around
in Aunty Gina’s cupboards and refrigerator looking for tacos!”
There had been a party the night before and there were
lots and lots of delicious, Mexican and Greek leftovers.
Quick as a flash, Christina stomped her legs rapidly together
and flew up and out of the crib like Tigger, only much cuter,
by now she was wearing blue woad and mud on her face.
Christina picked up a shoe and swung it around her head
in a clockwise fashion 5 times and it magically turned
into a big mockingbird with a saddle and reigns on its back.
Althea just managed to open the bedroom door in time
and they flew and glided out and charged the kitchen,
there were 4 owls engaged in this party platter burglary.
There was cake and sandwich pieces strewn everywhere,
but everyone knows a Sacramento Owls favourite food is tacos,
and between the 4 of them they could not find any, yet.
Christina pulled a special catapult her Da had made her
out of Welsh Wizard wood from the Bron – Yr- Aur Zeppelin song,
from out the side of her diaper and fired little hard balls
of poop that she’d been making and baking overnight,
while the Mocking bird, set about the Owls insecurities,
calling one ‘Fat’ one ‘Ugly’ one a ‘Dork’ and even told
one of them to ‘Bag its Head’ and to ‘Gag me with a Spoon’
Well, as you can imagine, the poop and insults were too much
for even Owls have feelings, and they flew back out
of the window and off to whence they came just as Uncle Greg,
Uncle Josh and Uncle Jacob came running in with shotguns
because they’re old-fashioned Americans and believe
that it’s everyone’s right to bare arms and eat lots of bacon.
And that was the end of that, the tacos were of course
hidden in a gun safe buried under the kitchen floor tiles
and could only be opened by 3 kingfisher tears, a goblin toot
and a napkin smeared with pulled-pork juice and beef jerky.
So after everyone refreshed themselves with a glass of root beer,
they all went back to bed because they needed their beauty sleep
for they were all going camping in The Red Woods tomorrow.
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036 And also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/