On a Park Bench

Bold was he the hungry beggar—
expressive perched soul. Too close,
I feared the worst. Remember
the horror film, The Birds?

Sleek was he in shiny dark
blue-black, slick as oil,
breezes flickered his long tail
like a smoker taps a cigarette.
Patient, gregarious grackle's
beady black eyes spoke volumes
without words between us.

How has God provided for him?
Maybe picnickers left no food,
or seeds too hard to find—
and the voice above did ask of me.

I pinched my sandwich, breaking
bread, as at the Lord's Supper
and raised it to his eye level,
he hip, hopped, danced a bop
fluttered and flapped, flipped and flew
fetching thrown food on the grass.
I did my deed for the day.