by Jason M. Jones
He opens his arms and
scatters seed to the frenzied ground
where waiting beaks and
flapping wings invoke a flood
of black and brown feathers.
He breaks his stale loaves
to feed this mass, whether
they’re flea-ridden beggars or
lepers missing a toe or foot
or half their plumage.
The park bench is a pulpit
from which he spins the
gospel of universal flight,
and he pets those who offer
their doting walnut heads.
Alone among men, he finds
his brethren in the city’s
lost birds. He is, to them,
home. He is, to them —
Provider.
Heaven.
Full Belly.
Good Meal.
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 