Jackdaws are one of my beloved corvids, and one of my favorites to feed because they take cracked corn as an esteemed treat. I didn’t notice until recently that I wrote corvid poems for both Alec and Tam. There’s probably even more material than I’m aware of about the differences in my relationship with each of them in which bird I chose for which man.
You’ve come to ease my grieving
over being too far south to feed the
hoodies. Dapper in your monochrome
formalwear, you pluck the torn
remains of my sandwich — crust,
a bit of beef roast, mustard from
a pot — off the pavement, ignoring
the passersby and the hairy eyeball
they give me for encouraging you.
Well, of course I do.
blue-eyed rogue, the one I encouraged
last night. He knows the score. And so
do you — that flirty glance in hope of
scarfing some of my sweet roll, you know
it’s going to work, just as you know how to
steal milk from a bottle, make a tool, share
the spoils with a friend. So the bite of sticky
bun I toss you? As far as you’re concerned,
it’s only your just deserts.