You see I'm telling him, the birds don't come anymore now that you've changed feeders.
But he insists they'll figure it all out, as if there is a smell to the seeds laying flat in kitchen foil.
It's been a week now, only a few sparrows who've already made their home stop by.
But they're not as bright as the cardinals dancing, not as charming as the turtle doves, or not as black
As the starlings or occasional crow. No they don't seem to know. The old clear funnel gave their eyes a
Feast. At these heights they need to see. I want to sit on this deck he says where I'm not near shit and seeds
And more shit so he isn't, but I am. I'm near shit and sour seeds. All I know is I need to yank the chain,
Pull it down, but I don't, not yet but the shit is beginning to stink enough and I'm thinking about flushing it
All away...
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