The sky is feathered with pewter
like the tail-wings of the bluejay
at the feeder. His magnificent scream
pierces the quiet of morning.
Praise his siren song, beckoning
a swirl of blue to the feeder: Come
and be fed. Soon wrens bob and peck
around the jays in harmony.
Praise be the squirrel who bosses
this feeder—sly chameleon
vanishing into the bare maple
limbs, reappearing in time
to battle a half-dozen crows,
those robed magistrates
of greed. Praise their black
surging and sassing on takeoff.
Praise the red-footed mourning
dove partners who bring
their young in at dusk, accept
the remains discarded by others.
Praise their meager ways,
the sad flutter of their leaving.
Praise the watchful redbird
who feeds first, alone, then
the females who feed together.
Praise mother and child I find
on the porch, a festival of red
feathers announcing a cat’s
hidden perch. Praise the shovel
I use to lift them up. Praise their
rotting bodies nourishing the
woodsy earth, the pines full of nests.