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Quick Note to the Winter Birds
While Filling Their Empty Feeder
You can come back now . . . okay?
And look, it's oily sunflower seed,
the boutique stuff you pecked all April
back when your plumage was, well,
let's not get into it at that level
although it would be truthful to admit
your current grays and dull-browns
never make me reach for my camera
because, like Hardy's solitary thrush
who sang non-stop on Dorset's bare limbs,
you're darkling for Darwinian reasons,
your sexual hues unneeded till spring.
But now it is winter. My feet are cold.
And in the spirit of full disclosure
I'll admit to balking at the seed's cost,
stinginess disguised as moral concern
over my species intervening with yours.
Too late though, we're already symbiotic,
hopelessly so—there's no going back same as
the pigeon-feeding woman downtown,
who, with bread-crumb bestowing arms
assumes the pure stance of St. Francis
when clearly she's not him; she's over-layered,
soup-kitchened, beat down but for moments
when she tracks the low afternoon sun,
when, with eyes closed, she inhabits grace,
what's there for each of us, only waiting.
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