A black phoebe lands on my dying yard
of crab grass, flies off when I shift
on my lounge, returns when I settle
back down. Waits for the feeder to be filled.
Chickadees trapeze on the avocado branches,
stationed to swoop. Two feet in front of me,
a hummingbird suspends, its beak aimed
between my eyes. The sugar dish, too dirty
to sip from, needs to be cleaned.
The birds speak in quiet tongues.

Sometimes I weep.
From nest to shell to cracking,
little helpless membranes,
their open mouths waiting.
Parents off foraging for food.
Not all return. We hear the news,
or know first-hand the horrible things.
How do we live with ourselves?

I marvel at the lesser beings
for accepting what is and isn’t,
for the gentleness of wings
that brush against their different breeds
hushed at the feeder, for their ballet—
flying in, then out, taking turns.

And for those dodo birds I read about
who didn’t need their wings
on an island of no predators,
who greeted the foreigners
that had walked on water
but wobbled, too, on land.
Who soon disappeared altogether.