Backward Mutters

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