A chickadee sits on the back of the metal feeder
waiting his turn.
I think he must feel the vibrations
when a large bird leaves,
and he makes haste to shoot around the corner
and snatch a sunflower seed
before the next 747 Bluejay comes in for a landing.
I stand in the Communion line unspoken
moving toward the steps of the Altar
where two lines merge;
after you, no after you; but you are older
and I yield to some unspoken rule of seniority.
The subtle adjustments we make
as we weave in and out
to receive the food we so desperately need.