Crumbs
There were blackbirds
Conversing in the middle
Of the road,
Looking like an excited oil spill
As their feathers collected
The winter sun.
They hopped
And picked at the road salt—
Those pieces weren't crumbs.
I hoped the birds knew.
There were blackbirds
Conversing in the middle
Of the road,
Looking like an excited oil spill
As their feathers collected
The winter sun.
They hopped
And picked at the road salt—
Those pieces weren't crumbs.
I hoped the birds knew.