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 finches
who flock there, shouldering
each other away from the
buffet, squawking at the
top of their minute lungs
MINE! MINE! MINE!
I suppose when you weigh
hardly more than the
collection of feathers that
give you flight, provisions
in weensy packets are a
requirement. How then to
explain their attraction to
a 300-pound bear?