Was it you, dickcissel, with your finch beak outside on the feeder today? What I noticed was your slender grace the gentle bob of your head as you pecked the perfect seed, the flourish when you raised your pale bill, seed displayed, prize among prizes. How much of your small spirit you expend each day, seed by hopeful seed, feeding your heart, your beating wings. Was it you, strayed off course, or your spirit that stopped by here on your way from one unknown to another?
