The Spill

A blue jay drops like a heavy stone

and the plastic tube begins to sway.

He wants the center of the tray alone

and drives the smaller, browner things away.

A spray of oil seeds hits the porch,

black husks scattered like a smoker’s mess.

There’s no mercy in the morning scorch

of hunger and the weight of selfishness.

I watch them through the smudged and frosty pane

fighting for a perch that’s barely there.

It’s just a cycle of the sun and rain

and a handful of fat tossed into the air.