I have a little box of buttery chicken
sitting on the windowsill,
and I’m afraid that the rain
might disrupt its prime state of edibility.
It was eligible just a few minutes ago
when I put it there, steaming
and practically bulging with flavor notes.
But it seems as though the birds in the trees
have discovered their fallen sister
and subsequently called
to their great bird in the sky
for watery vengeance.