By Tom King
Time to fill the feeder
Greedy little buggers come and gone
Left only dark husks on the ground and flew away
Once in a while they come and thump the window
They're mad at me.
I'm forgetful and it's late winter
And they like the sunflower seeds
I stall a bit and let them thump
When the tray is empty they have to fly further
To other feeders; even to dry fields and emaciated weeds
To stoke the little fires
That keep their bellies warm
And give them wings in winter
Oh, I'll give them a break soon.
Just want to make sure they understand
The proper use of wings and beaks
And brains and claws.
In case something happens to me.
And no one remembers about the feeder.