Winter Panes by Wesli Court
Wings are fretting across my winter panes.
A downy hammers on his square of suet.
A nuthatch and her partner do a duet
Or flickering duel in which neither gains
Or loses much. Now, as the season wanes
An owl asks none too wisely, “Sir, to wit:
To whom may I be hooting?” “You may rue it
To find that out,” I say, but he explains
By asking that same question one more time.
I shake my head and argue it no further
But watch the seeds receding in my feeder.
A chickadee asks me if I will feed her
Once more before it’s dark. She shakes a feather,
Begging me before I turn to rime.
