Stooti's Poem of the Day

The jay’s up early, and attacks the lawnwith something of that fervor and despairof one whose keys are not where they always are, checking the same spots over and againtill something new or overlooked appears—an armored pillbug, or a husk of grain.He flits with it home, where his mate beds down,her stern tail feathers jutting from the nestlike a spoon handle from a breakfast bowl.The quickest lover’s peck, and he’s paroledagain to stalk the sodgrass, cockheaded, obsessed. He must get something from his selfless work— joy, or reprieve, or a satisfying senseof obligation dutifully dispensed.Unless, of course, he’s just a bird, with beaks—too many beaks—to fill, in no way possessedof traits or demons humans might devise,his dark not filled with could-have-beens and whys.