They get at it much earlier than we do: toast crumbling down our lips, while they make a mess at the feeders, sunflower shells stuck like small black phrases between the deck’s teeth, something we can’t really spit out, not like downy woodpeckers hanging upside down, two male cardinals scouring splintery surface, nuthatch, chickadee, titmouse, anything with tuft and quick head, their always curved claws— Walmart’s berry and nut mix, a noisy flow of millet like uncooked rice pouring into a tea cup: as if they could wipe their beaks with cerise linen napkins and praise the sunrise, the empurpled lagoon.
John Allman | The Other Side of the Sun Contents | Mudlark No. 48 (2012)