So much has been said <br />about the lark, about the thrilling <br />trilling of the nightingale, <br />about wrens, <br />sparrows. <br /> <br />But I wouldn’t know one <br />if I saw one. Every day <br />little brown and gray birds <br />hold congress in my backyard, <br />then scatter like October leaves <br />with no warning, all in perfect unison, <br />like precision dancers. <br /> <br />Someday, I say to myself, <br />(careful that no-one else hears) <br />I’ll buy an Audubon Birds of America <br />or a National Geographic Guide <br />to Northamerican Birds. <br />Yet, something tells me <br />I may never. <br /> <br />Still, I know <br />that those plumed creatures <br />foraging through last summer’s <br />marigold heads, <br />don’t know my name either, <br />and will never buy <br />Audubon’s Guide to Humans <br />of Northamerica, <br />but they’ll nod to me <br />when I leave them <br />a scoop of sunflower seeds <br />mixed with a handful of good intentions <br />to get us all through the winter.<br /><br />Sonny Rainshine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/birds-of-america/
