Poetry

Birdbrain

There’s a finch
with a rusty red chest
carefully clinging
to the spinning,
wind-driven
feeder on
the deck,
an avian
amusement ride
providing
safflower
and thrills
for young birds
new in town,
eager to eat
and play around,
shrugging the
last of the cold
from tiny shoulders
in a gleeful
cacophony of
carefree chirping
and when the
sun sets,
they will sleep –
for that is all
they care to know.
I should be so, too,
but no,
I have such
thinking to think!
Much ado
about nothing.

4 replies »

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