My friend and I

eat sunflower seeds

sitting on a park bench

feeding birds.

I point to

a gray spotted one;

that one, I say,

that one has to have every last one.

He nods.

A moment, and a brown one

bobbing from beneath our feet,

stroking its wings.

That one only wants attention.

He nods.

A black bird,

sitting in a lone tree, watching

the others coo and garble for bread.

That one, I say, he would rather wait;

he thinks he's better than the flock.

But all birds are still birds.

My friend nods,

considers me with hollow eyes,

gathers his robes.

Death tosses his seeds

and leaves.