Why Do I Feed the Birds?
Why do I feed the birds
I was once asked.
It was the hardest question of all
for it took me to task,
to reflect and dig deep,
to go beyond the obvious
and to look inside,
for a glimpse, or even a peek
at a place where I had no idea
where that question
would take me, or leave me.
Why do I feed the birds?
Surely, Mother Nature
has plenty of food
to feed the flocks
as She has done for eons.
But I don't have eons,
just days, months,
years and weeks,
to dole out seeds
and scraps of bread
to those feathery friends
who warble and peep,
who stop by my feeder
on their way to building nests
to heading north or east,
or south or west
or just stopping by
in-between catching insects
or migrating over the seasons,
I'm sure there's a thousand reasons.
I mulled and ruminated,
yet I had no answer
for that very simple question.
Why do I feed the birds?
I might as well have been asked,
"Why do I feel the wind,
and not have the eyes to see it?"
Yet its effects are in plain sight:
fallen leaves swirling 'round in eddies,
or those very birds drifting high and fast
upon Nature's invisible breath
always at the ready.
I pondered it more,
until I realized the answer.
I am actually feeding myself
whenever I put the morsels
into the feeder standing tall
in the kitchen garden.
I am the extension of Mother Nature,
the giver who receives great joy
whenever a cardinal, a blue jay,
a sparrow or a wren
pause during my share of this eon,
to savor, to fill up, to receive sustenance
and who know my face in the window
and see my hands clutching seeds,
who know my spring and autumnal deeds,
through winter's frost, and summer's heat
to birds who simply enjoy
whatever I give them to eat.
And to birds from near, to birds from afar
I feed them all because I feed that eternal spirit,
that universal spirit,
which, after all, is what we really are.
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