We hung it on the fir tree,
a mesh tower of worms,
drawing mostly sparrows but sometimes finch --
smaller and more agile as they cling
to the wind-swung silo trying
to find the best angle for getting food.
And in this hour,
when the sun softens its light
I watch them as words hover
in the back of my throat. Each tugging
on certain chords, testing inflection
and tone. All striving to burst
into the branching sentence
that must be spoken to begin a poem.
And on it, words land then lift
pitching their syllables like this morning's perch
of slight birds who flick their tails
in the shadow of cedar & pine. Absorbing breath
from what deepens and allows things to last.