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,

side ways,

tops, bottoms,

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

intensifies,

multiplies, in frequency and decible.

In these parts alarms are useless,

far better to heed nature’s call.