I put two more fat balls in the feeder, he says.
Did I say you could? I laugh.
Nope, he says, but I did anyway.
Now we both laugh.
Inspector Jacques Clouseau
here in my writing room had already sussed it out.
Chaffinches were on sentry duty
atop the bird feeder.
Calling their dinner bell.
Sparrows, coat tits, great tits, yellow blurs
in the roses bushes
while the seeds dropped slowly.
On our patio errant seeds
grow unruly Covid locks. Faded,
dried out, clumps wasting away.
Miniature carrots have been known to raise a
root or two.
But to watch chaffinch, tit and sparrow mingle
at the feeder is plenty entertainment.
Sparrows feeding sparrows,
three to four at the feeder.
Upside down clings and perches,
talons wrapped, touching full circle
while they peck and balance
wings fluttering ninety to the dozen
faster than hummingbirds,
It’s then I miss those feeders and the call, chirp, hum,
sucking the sugar water dry.
I love to chat at our feeder.
Before the dogs came,
neighbours adding dogs to the family circle,
morning calls would be a tap on
our bedroom window
Or a survey of one window over another
The one that would ensure full feeding ahead.
Peanuts, wild birdseed.
Sometimes it’s 4:10am. and the gentle song
multiplies, in frequency and decible.
In these parts alarms are useless,
far better to heed nature’s call.