The Bird at My Window
The night before on the plain wooden sill
I leave him a few seeds.
In the morning I watch – he bends to pick them up
head swivels effortlessly
as if on twisted spring.
watching for the dangers in his world.
He arrived almost casually one day.
Though now I wonder whether his sojourn was deliberate.
He had no reason to alight here
on my gray sill in the countryside.
This morning when I walked into the room
my shadow startled him and he was gone.
For days now,
I’ve wondered whether I could entice him to return –
his life and mine
intertwined for brief, but tender moments.
As with many friendships
there was an ebb and flow.
Will we find ourselves longing for these moments?
Will we call this history - “better times”?
Will he return to this spot again
looking for me
as I do for him each morning?