True, it gets soiled
now and then
and after fall,
with snow.
Eventually ice,
then waiting for
beak-pecked memory.
Spring’s first robin–
full, the mirror bath
catches eyes alike,
revives new stock.
So someone
refills it–it is,
after all, expected.
I take the jug
and pour libations
to my aery brethren.
Honoured by their
short feathery stays,
voyeur to their dips.
Yes, I could do
nothing,
but it’s not mine
to choose.