Flocked

I am being watched
by a flock of birds.
From above
I hear the high
tinkling bell sound
of bushtits, tiny grey
birds who zoom in
inches from my face,
then stuff themselves
into the suet feeder
by the dozens,
oblivious to my
outsized presence.
I can feel the small
wind of their wings.
Red-breasted nuthatches
swoop down, one, then
two, tooting like toy
trumpets, then an array
of chickadees chattering
to each other as they
snag their food—over
here! It’s better on
this side!—they snatch
seeds and bounce off
to cache them in
the ponderosas.
A downy woodpecker
joins the foragers,
his red nape aflame
in the sunlight, close
enough for me to touch.
And for a few perfect minutes
I am part of this frenzied flock.

 


Lois Levinson is a retired attorney, a former French teacher, an avid birder, and a student at Lighthouse Writers Workshop in Denver, Colorado. She has recently had her first poem, “Migrations,” published in Bird’s Thumb, and she looks forward to more literary journals accepting her work.


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