poem

perhaps the world is beginning - also, 

ending. it’s always been the way...

at feedings, birds keep on doing their 

work in this old world. no matter: what 

evolves. what is composted. seeds that 

fall from the feeder, may well sprout. 

seeds the wonderfully male finch feeds

his fledgling young one, may well bring 

life to wings for one more day: we are 

not to know, not being gods of any earth. 

all that’s needed is not recorded in words. 

silent feedings. instructions in each seed: 

to grow, or not to grow: that is the answer:

it all matters. it all does not. 

what is here, is beauty and purpose and will. 

what is here, is destiny and entropy and joy.

what is here, is infinity and sorrow and yes. 

some say, birds say much. I say, birds say

exactly what is needed, and not a trill more. 

soon, flight. soon, acceptance of another 

seed of life’s bounty. soon, awareness of

another day of searching for meaning, at 

each feeder, and out into the fields of 

another morning....