off key

They always come back each year, the same ones. Taking down the feeder without a ladder, they impatiently zip by my ear, rapid wings echoing like a panicked staccato breath, slamming foolishly against the reflecting window, and I fall backwards. We recover nicely.
I find myself motionless, neck on a swivel and head cocked liked the feathered, listening to their lively lullaby. But I whistle off-key, blinking. The littlest birds travel zig-zaggedly, never a straight line between A and B, avoiding the claws of overfed predators, inarching their small hearts to mine. I zig-zag in life contemplating the next little event, hoping the watercolors don't run.


work of art: Waking, Walking, Singing, in the Next Dimension? (1979)
by Morris Graves