Singers

They wait their turn, Watching from the sidelines. Cheerfully chattering, they speak, Perhaps of weather. Then suddenly they’re off! Swooping down, they glide, Wings extended in crucifix, They brake. Alighting softly Onto the pavement. Here there are seeds scattered. Tossed each day by a frail hand From the porch above. There is a bond here. An understanding. Food for song. Cheaper than cable TV, At times more entertaining. They finish now. They’ve had their fill. They launch together, Land together, Watch and wait together, From the bushes at the side Of the pavement below the porch. Tomorrow the hand will come again To pay them for their song.