A group of Dim peered toward
Juncos have now arrived
at the Oak tree feeder.
I say family freely;
I've just observed the guys
scratching the strangely warm
mid-February ground,
never with much intrigue
in the feeders above:
House Finches, Goldfinches,
what's more, the harassing House
Sparrows. Nourishment will be there,
they think, particularly
at the point when my child tosses bunches
of thorn seed around
the base of the feeders.
It's anything but difficult to watch them
need to no end, gathering
two young men bouncing to hit a soccer ball in a woodland
remains from the ones
who move and plunge around
each other – stunt-devils
what's more, pugilists, getting
the simple spot to eat,
letting just a couple
seeds drop. Juncos are visually impaired
to unintentional elegance,
never recognizing
their supporters – just
here, scratching and bowing.
I'm viewing the Juncos,
perusing family messages
about your medical procedure,
while going after a light
string, the representation's deft
linchpin. It dodges me,
for the most part, influencing some place
over my head, while I,
look down, need for everything
what's more, compose supporting lines.
