Linda B. Gamble
Sun glint off my sandwich bag -
instantly he’s there, three feet
to our left, feathers soft gray
with a flash of white quiver
in the wind. Vigilant peppercorn
eyes watch wait
for a lapse in attention, or
wayward breeze to blow
a crust his way.
We’re not the sort to feed you, we laugh,
wondering, was he the brazen
marauder who stole fish
off our grill last night?
Only when I toss trash to the bin,
does he give up his quest
for my turkey on wheat. Wings
spread, catch air. He banks into
a graceful curve, soars out to sea.
Envious, I ponder the price of flight.