A Black-capped Chickadee hovers mysteriously,
the point where speed meets gravity and an overcast day
is lit by a small missile.
 

A White-breasted Nuthatch promises the impossible,
a figment of my imagination,
charming and rude all at once.
 

Not enough energy? Rebellious songbirds show off,
rolling and tumbling, tangled-up in battle.
 

The aftermath of a skirmish over a seed,
a pair of finches bicker throughout the morning,
the loser falling away,
ready to fight again.
 

A male house finch cries out in judgment,
not sure he likes the 21st Century.
 

Feeling rather lightheaded and footloose watching this snowy songbird
making his rounds in a cold, still world.
 

She’s the kind of girl who leads, mysterious and complicated,
her graceful movements, her penetrating gaze,
performing her lazy high dance,
a trespassing nymph reflected
in my glassy lake.
 

Winter songbirds rise screeching into the air, scruffy angels
of a sort, rudimentary squabbles making them
so perfect for one another.
 

She was the kind of songbird the sun shines on,
the kind of girl you’ll get lost in, lost deep,
the kind of girl a man would die for,
. . . and usually did.
 

The light fades on a snowy afternoon,
and a radiant rascal surveys the
raging sky with a whisper.
 

Wearing a crown of wet feathers,
a soaked songbird fills the hole in the sky
left behind by a spring rain.