Bird to Bird, Beak to Flake

An otherwise perfectly good box of Corn Flakes appeared in the street on the corner near my apartment.

I'd walked past it earlier today, thinking nothing of garbage in the street. This is how things are in Bed-Stuy, New York City in general. People casually throw garbage from their cars and drop it as they walk along the sidewalk. People toss it as they create it. A wrapper comes out the opened SUV window after a sandwich is eaten, a tissue falls from hands after a nose is blown, a can and a brown bag after a beer is drank. Whole stacks of old tires were left on the block last month. Cars rust and rot on the curb just out of view from here. What's to be thought of a box of cereal but another piece of refuse?

I didn't realiize it was a full, fresh box. I put it together when I heard a pop and, on looking out that way, saw the flakes scattered from the point of bag's blow-out. It wasn't long before seagulls cawed, descended, and feasted.

This one particular seagull was more contemplative than the others. It paused there. It did not move as cars passed. What held it there? Was it joy at the bounty? Did it recognize fellow foul, that trademarked rooster on the box of Corn Flakes? If so, how'd it feel about eating what spilled out from that box?