Maintenance

The woman on the call is discussing the 'spend',

while I watch the yard at the driveway's end.

The storm last night was a short, messy fight,

that knocked the birdfeeder out of the light.

The plastic is cracked, a jagged, clear mess,

spilling out seeds like a signal of stress.

The dirt is a carpet of expensive black grain,

swollen and soft from the weight of the rain.

A single gray squirrel is hunched in the mud,

chewing a hull with a rhythmic, dull thud.

He doesn't care that the structure is gone,

as long as the feast keeps carrying on.