The squirrel isn’t baffled by the shape of the new bird feeders installed
inside the lilac; his tail flirts, second by second, a hummingbird’s cousin,
as he chases the pressure-treated T to grab millet and peanuts, then scamper away.
The doves do not mourn, they just bill and coo as they hop on the ground,
tip-head chicken-pecking at black oil sunflower seed, their preferred feed.
Their tails bob in weird counterpoint to their fat bodies and wee, tiny heads.
This year there aren’t any pigeons or seagulls, though come February or so,
I’ll resist the urge to chuck stale bread in inedible chunks from the porch so those giant pests leave some for the sparrows, the starlings, the other smaller brown birds;
that murderous want will remain despite how that late in the winter,
those unfallen sparrows are the fattest things in the county, almost too big to fly.
Their small, symmetrical shapes are a soothing roundness against the bright red fruit
they’ve disdained to eat from the ornamental crab tree,
the yellow points of rose leaves still twined against the grey-stained trellis
they perch on in hordes, their fat silhouettes clouding the top of the fence
the demented old neighbors next door are convinced is a declaration of war.
Dad hogs the pantry window, waiting for cardinals and blue jays, the woodpecker
with its red crest and habit of darting in at the suet.
He highlights those flashes of color against the now-drab of the yard,
the dormant raised beds and the mulch of spent seed hulls
and guano. I like the blood-orange beak and dull coat of the lady cardinal myself,
the way she seeks cover, here and gone again if we have not done our job
of putting the seed far enough under a bush. On any given day, though, I’ll feed
and be fed by whatever wings in.