For the birds

I wallow beneath the kumquats
because my father told me
this afternoon

was for the birds. He pulls
the outside spout, raises
a hand

to his forehead to make
sure his rip-roar veins
run cool

and run clean. It is sore
in the shade, but I do
not rub

my parched pipe since I
will wait to push and
prime

the warm sunnyside up
bellies of the birds, the
birds

who will tumble out of
east onto blown grass
and stack

in the order of father
daughter father
daughter

For the birds

the last with willow
brittle claw held
high.