(for Al and Terri Wolf)

Al’s bird feeders are diligently attended
by all manner of small-winged neighbors I
see from behind the glass. He has left all five
full for the wee birds who flit like butterflies,
land, peck and flee, making it hard to see
them clearly, much less identify them.

At times like this I wish for the knowledge
and experience of my birding friends,
who might pronounce one “nuthatch” or
“junco”’ or “wren” or “finch.” I manage
“bird” or perhaps “tiny, flitty bird.”

Even looking for their likenesses online,
I cannot tell—they’re here and so quickly gone.
Maybe this one is Sparrow and that one Chickadee.
Terri saw Flicker yesterday.

As if it matters. I imagine the birds don’t
care who’s who as long as there’s room
on a feeder for their winter-cold feet.

Terri and I watch the seed line slowly sink
in each feeder, which Al will refill upon
his return. I so admire these humans’
commitment to the birds intently watched
by Dewy and Quince, the ginormous cats,
from their permanent indoor perches.

The birds don’t seem ruffled by the presence
of potential predators. Perhaps they know
they’re safe from teeth and claws
on the other side of the glass.

Or perhaps they’re supremely confident
that their quick movements will keep them
safe, relieved to find food on the coldest days,
these bird-size containers of sustenance
thoughtfully refilled with plenty to last
them into spring.