THE DINER
As I sat in my living room eating,
out of the periphery of my right
eye
the white-cuffed, fanned tails
of a pair of doves
rebuffed the air and landed below
the feeders
that hang from the branches of
my front tree.
On the ground they were ushers at
a wedding
in gray morning coats with black
spots on the tails.
They would take a couple of persnickety
paces, rock their heads to the
grass, and eat
the husks of sunflower seeds on
the ground.
Already there were several red-winged
blackbirds
pecking with the same, short stiff
stabs and steps-
their startling red and yellow
epaulets
showing from their black funereal
wings.
(I was hungry to give them some
meaning.)
As they peacefully grazed, the spectacular
yellow and dusty gold bodies and
black wings
of four goldfinches arrived in
a flutter-
their feet and bills built for
the tiny perches
and apertures of a thistle feeder-
a family of aerialists in a circus-
diversity composed within a few
feet.
Looking out of my kitchen window
last year,
for maybe ten seconds, like a strand
of DNA,
I saw a brown creeper spiraling
up a tree.
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