Early on a cold Kentucky morning
I sit on the porch huddled in an old sweatshirt
that smells faintly of grease and
another woman’s perfume
–I know better than to ask whose–
I am smoking a cigarette
and drinking warm Pepsi from a coffee cup.
Not my usual breakfast, to be sure,
but “when in Rome,” as the sayings goes…
The woman who used to live here
fed the birds every morning
and although she has been
gone for a cycle of seasons
they still expect their breakfast.
On a shelf in the pantry among
dusty jars and tins and
souvenir mugs and glasses
I find a tub of bird seed,
probably stale but I doubt
they will mind.
And so, before I sit down to
my own country breakfast,
I throw a few handfuls of
broken corn and sunflower seeds
into the front yard, only recently cleared
of a year’s worth of wind-blown trash,
decayed leaves and broken branches.
The crows come first,
wary but adventurous, never
forgetting I am there, turning
their backs to me as they take
the choicest bits.
The starlings are next,
with their yellow beaks and spotted suits,
hopping about and feasting,
not brave enough to show me
their backs.
Last are the chickadees with
darkly lined eyes and flashes
of white tail feathers—the silly tarts of the avian world.
They dither about, nervous and excited,
forgetting I am there until one
lands at my cold, bare feet and startles,
scattering the flock.