pecking on the deck
at the seed we spread
over the else sustenance-hiding snow,
Tinybird revels
in the unseasonal feast,
hopping like a miniature dinosaur.
At the glass door, I crouch and watch.
But Tinybird does not wish to be a meal for the gigantic
man,
and instantly she spots me,
she flees to the trees.
‘Tis then that I rise,
with grand spreading gesture,
fling open the door,
appear,
and cast
another seed-spray visibly
into the air,
the while
making irenic smoochy-sounds.
Ah, bright herald
of a lighter, loftier world,
Tell me what thou heardest from Saint Francis!
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