bethblairnh8
- Apr 17, 2023

Allegro!

The tree outside

my kitchen door

has become a

symphony of

liquid notes from

golden throats.

They chirp and

flutter, voicing

the joy of a damp

morning in late

spring when both

buds and finches

cannot help but

burst into song.

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What's For Breakfast?

They are the smallest of seeds. Set with care in a tiny feeder suction-cupped to my kitchen window. How can this offering, a mere handful of slender grains, sustain the frenzied Spring flirting of the

Sparrows

These poems are not important enough to be bound in silent books. Rather, let them dart out of the window, bright eyed, to land on your shoulder and sing for their breakfast.

Suddenly

What would you do if, without warning, men came to your home said you must leave, you will leave now, this very moment. stop feeding your children stop making love to your mate stop singing to the daw