Wild are the birds that come to my feeder;
varied enough to accommodate taste,
crowded this base with seedlings discarded,
strewn by all who might call service in haste.
I follow their pathways of forage beyond me,
they challenge winds that break bone and brain,
know my station remains replenished:
fine country dining of seed and grain.
Come all you callers, you pickers, you peckers;
come all those nibblers famished by need
Cold are those winds that carry a phrase
beyond simple trills of those who belong,
by their birthright as living and thrilling with blood
in belonging through life and living in song.
A song that continues with each generation
unless we discard all that once made us whole.
Come all you loved ones of feather and colour
Come you beloved who share in this Earth.