A poem about the birds outside my office window.
A family of juncos Fly and flit though the branches Of a crepe myrtle outside my window… Up and down from limb to limb Then limb to ground. And back up and around. For some reason, they don’t feed at the feeder But prefer to take the seeds That others knock down, What others don’t seem to want or need. If I had my choice, I’d be A feeder bird. I’d rather be perched high and served By the source. And for that matter Served first, of course. Not with other’s seconds Which they’ve scattered ‘round Spilled, and left lying on the ground. But then, what else are seeds but grace? And grace doesn’t just hang in mid-air Or float in space But it falls from above Is the overflow of Love That spills and feeds In seconds of surprise, In a moment, in a place-- Through a kind word, And a smiling face. © Randall Edwards 2021