The Birdfeeder
Did it take getting old
to appreciate the crows?
I plant my feet on the floor.
Thoughts always the same
Toilet, coffee, feed the birds
who have come early
as winter sits around the corner.
Do they fall asleep thinking of me?
Are they watching the door?
I wonder as when I step out
the crows begin to caw.
A regular “breakfast is served”
song to the neighbourhood.
And they come.
The woodpecker angling
the seed ball.
I question why he’s not banging
on the tree.
But we all need a break from knocking our heads.
Even birds I suppose.
The pigeon pair arrives
cursed by my neighbour.
But mine are not dirty, abhorrent things.
These creatures are shiny, silvery, beautifully shaped.
As all things are when taken care of.
So many are now here it becomes
bird ballet or sometimes
I think of air traffic control.
How do they not collide at warp speed?
And then - the dog appears.
Mass migration takes flight
except for one lone blue tit.
No fear here.
Fixated.
Gulping down as much as he can.
I admire him.
I love risk takers even when there is no risk.
The birds feed for hours.
If not careful, my morning slips until
the feeder goes quiet.
The birds with full bellies.
My mind full of peace.
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