Nothing is fresh. It’s all old. Stale. Crumbles in hand. This bread has mold on it. Green turning black. An old piece of sourdough. 

He opens the door to his trailer and looks at the birds flying around. Tearing off pieces, he throws the bread in the air like they were Frisbees. Old smelly bread on the ground. Hiding in the tall grass. Weeds. Birds swoop down and carry pieces with them. Flying high with chunks of mold in their beaks. He watches.

Closing his door, he notices a pair of binoculars on the bookshelf next to Tropic of Cancer. He picks up the object and examines it. Adjusting the lenses, he focuses on the sky from his front window. The birds are gone. He zooms in. Bread is gone, too. The feast is over.

The old man laughs. Looks around the place for other food or debris to throw out to the winged creatures; hoping they come back.

A pizza box sits in the corner. He opens it and discovers crust. Stale crust. There are several pieces. He walks back out to the front porch and makes bird calls like he did when he used to hunt with his son. Throwing out the pizza crust, he thinks of him. His only kid. He pauses. Fucked that up too, he says. Could never get anything right. He drops the binoculars.  The birds return.

He wished his son would.