Birds at My Feeder

They’ve survived for years, millennia even,

well past their dinosaur days evolving

into finch and nuthatch and chickadee,

black-capped, yellow-breasted, barred wings

a-flutter, crowding my bird feeder of sunflower seeds

purchased, monthly, 50 pounds, from the local market

to feed them now in the winter months’

cold and snow, birds flocking to my yard,

scores of them, unbothered by my sitting here

watching from my window, rocking here,

warmed by a mug of tea and their song,

surviving regardless of my feeding them,

feeding them but a reason to sit here,

warmed, watching them, surviving.