the large lads are at it again

A poem.

six fat tufty

yelling cruel but-

we-can't-stop-

watching sparrows

feast on the quarantine

patio day after day.

you'd think we'd stop

filling the bird-feeder

but this is our world now,

our cat's world, deciding

which one is the ring-

leader, which one maybe

feels the worst about

the exclusionary nature

of bird society--that is to say

we often debate why 

the loner crimson cardinal

with the badass mohawk 

has to wait to pick at the seed

debris once the hours-long

frenzy is over. before these

large lads showed up we had 

starlings attending flight school, 

back when the clear Brooklyn sky 

was empty, the city submerged

in separation with a hand clapped 

across its mouth. but the starlings

grew up & left to build homes

in Green-Wood's eaves

& here we've got these 

sparrow siblings squabbling

over the shrinking supply 

in the feeder while a mound

of discarded seeds, the potential

for sunflowers perfect small

delicious, rises on the concrete

beneath them.