A charm of house finches gathers in the dead pine tree. A red-breasted male swoops onto the feeder and nabs a black-oil sunflower seed, breaks open the shell to feast. Next door, the screen bangs against the frame, the elderly neighbor’s house slippers scuff the brick steps. Again, she’s done something stupid, she’s reminded she’s a fool, asked why can’t you just. . .
The finches take flight and cloud the sky, scatter empty shells.
were you there. . .
on the wind
an evening song