In my place and a little beyond

the small murder sources remains.

There are flakes of a meal

daily on my porch table. I see

to them, the morsels strewn.

Bobbing cautious by turns under

the awning, plucking bran collecting

nuts—a bird then a bird processes,

droops to kernels, raises to transport,

to soften in the yard bath.

I love them in light movements,

like the shadows winging wild

and watchful around my soul,

neither feeding clear of risk:

blessed bran of darkened habit,

keen to the fragments of one man

thrown a little beyond his place.