The Alcove

A poem for my finches

I set the pole where house winds lean—
a quiet crook behind the eaves—
and filled the tray with seeds so clean
the golden finches flocked like leaves.

Their yellow gowns, their flit and flare,
outshone the hawthorn’s budding light.
I watched them quarrel through morning air
and crown the feeder black with flight.

The downy came with hammer’s grace
to tap his claim and flick his tail.
The cowbird eyed the seed in place
with silent step and shadowed veil.

My nuthatch walked the trunk of steel,
a sprinter drawn to upside-down.
The dove in pink performed her reel—
a flutter-dance to shake them down.

The cones held fast against the will
of adolescent squirrels anew.
Each tried the climb with strength and skill,
but none could best the baffle’s clue.

A cardinal’s flame, alone and slow,
stepped not to feed but simply passed.
His mate behind him, soft and low,
a murmur brushing through the grass.

I’ve known these paths, these patterns, all—
the way the sparrows hedge their bets,
how robins land when shadows fall
to sift through twilight silhouettes.

And still it humbles me to tend
this corner carved from wind and tree,
where every feeder finds a friend
and peace arrives in wing and key.