Since the bird feeders, the House Sparrows
have run the finches off the beam,
scattered their nest, spending mornings
rebuilding for a week. The male helps,
but would rather fluff his feathers
in the warm first light and supervise.
He packs little twigs and she dry weeds,
long streamers trailing her fluttering
balancing act, treading air before ascending.
Saying nothing, we see ourselves
in these silhouettes, satisfied
and pleased to entertain the gods.
drycrikjournal 