Birdbath

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.

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