Like the full moon filling the birdbath, a perfect circle of ice blunts the sparrows' beaks. The skin on the first knuckle of each finger of my right hand stings with cold. My brittle fingers break small pieces of bread from the slice now half its original size. I laugh out loud at the headlines, "St. Francis of Tucson, Bread Man to the birds, found wanting for nothing ever again, a freeze in the cactus garden of the Tucson basin."

2 comments:

artpredator said...

i enjoyed seeing this through your words

Frank Parker said...

Thank you! Enjoyed sharing...
Frank