This didn’t go in any way as I expected, but just in case: a couple of haiku-like thingies first,
 

Under Cerulean Skies

Living jewels spin
cloisonné in a whirlwind
hummingbirds at play

avian cowboys
hogtie the feeder with speed

drink
with their noses?

In Which I Dream of Leading a Nature Walk

Because the cerulean warbler is
unhappy with suburban sprawl, cranes, malls
(with their black parking lots and terrified
trees)–that: must be a bluebird, or jay.

Knowing we have confused the orioles
just passing through for robin residents,
still we wonder of a flock of yellow
how escaped canaries tolerate cold,

and if–I stare off toward what I presume
is north, and feeling a small tic of guilt–
they’ll try to vie with us for nesting space?
Were we expecting someone to save us

from ourselves, some pest-, weed-, sororicide-
resistant ur-mosquitoes to arise,
Godzillas of the peat moss wise enough
to stomp us flat before we can react?

Friend Pessimist, Friend Pollyanna: Earth’s
autoimmune defense has failed against
humanity, there’s no ex machina;
roaches will be holding us off
the landing pads of Mars.