Feeding the Yellow Birds

He came each day, when the sun showed noon, Two heels in a plastic bag- Thermos of hot tea To have lunch and Read passages to the yellow birds- Usually an hour, til they took flight. But today the bench is unoccupied- Empty, except for a plate of hardened ice, Stuck smooth and tight on the iron, and frozen sheets on the lath. Yesterday his footprints showed- They were longer than most, From shuffling feet and a small round circle At the side, from the walking stick... But now they are gone- Covered by snow on the path. The ducks look, and for awhile they wait, Funny squawks and squeaks in their throats, Heads bobbing with each step of feet, Perhaps the only ones to notice the empty bench. Strange, they have not flown south yet, As their pond is nothing but a white icedrome. Perhaps they were waiting for their Friend to go first, and now that he has gone, they will soon take flight. He walks spry in a gentler land, Beard no longer gray, Sitting warm- no aches or pains, Face with no creased lines... Feeding the yellow birds on a silver pond each day at noon.