The goldfinch, when it flies away,
bobs through the air
like a skipping stone on the water.
Gold-yellow-black its body.
Gathering at a feeder, holding on
with small, tendril-like feet.
Stopping – once – to alight
on a post that is nearby,
and sits staring out at my flowery yard.
I wonder.
Is that an approving glance
from the fine creature?
Is it that he’s eaten his fill
at the feeder I fill every day,
and now uses the delicate little grains
to power the keenness of his vision?
And what is he thinking, then,
of the little patch of grass, the trees
(all oak and pine and sassafras)
that line the yard, the pool
I open in summer and swim in
to chill my skin on a hot day?
What does he think of the flowers
which I have planted all around,
that find their constant being
in that tidy patch of grass I call my own?
It’s not long he perches there,
on the metal rod, by the feeder,
letting his easy mind course (maybe)
over sights and sounds he’s heard before,
and knows how to interpret
this the safe landscape of his life.
No, not long at all he stays,
having eaten his fill, I guess,
then courses through the air,
away from my yard for a while,
bobbing as he goes.
Like, yes, the skipping stone.
It isn’t long until he’s replaced
by another of his golden kind,
a sharp, sweet little strike of beauty,
a reason to live and to love
in a world that seeds our paths
with so many wondrous things to look at.
That joy our days.
That lights the dark, and sings all day,
without straining, without striving, content
just to eat from my feeder, in my backyard,
and to sit on the railing and watch
as day goes down, and the golden light of its feathers
goes down, too, with the sun.
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