my children when they sit tight

A group of Dim peered toward

Juncos have now arrived

at the Oak tree feeder.

I say family freely;

I've just observed the guys

scratching the strangely warm

mid-February ground,

never with much intrigue

in the feeders above:

House Finches, Goldfinches,

what's more, the harassing House

Sparrows. Nourishment will be there,

they think, particularly

at the point when my child tosses bunches

of thorn seed around

the base of the feeders.

It's anything but difficult to watch them

need to no end, gathering

two young men bouncing to hit a soccer ball in a woodland

remains from the ones

who move and plunge around

each other – stunt-devils

what's more, pugilists, getting

the simple spot to eat,

letting just a couple

seeds drop. Juncos are visually impaired

to unintentional elegance,

never recognizing

their supporters – just

here, scratching and bowing.

I'm viewing the Juncos,

perusing family messages

about your medical procedure,

while going after a light

string, the representation's deft

linchpin. It dodges me,

for the most part, influencing some place

over my head, while I,

look down, need for everything

what's more, compose supporting lines.