By giving birds our seeds and crumbs, we tie
their lives to ours & make them so depend
on what we have to offer they might die
if we withdrew & failed to be their friend.
They come & peck & peck, & we enjoy
observing them as they consume the food
whose attributes they likely will employ
to feed themselves & rear some wondrous brood.
(Though many come, with colors as diverse
as separate the autumn from the spring,
we still enjoy the task of playing nurse
to all of them -- whatever songs they sing.)
We too are birds, of sorts, & we presume
the universe will always find us room.