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