36 NEBRASKAland • NOVEMBER 2018
PHOTO
BY
ERIC
FOWLER
PHOTO
BY
MATT
ALBERTS
How to Feed the Birds
Early morning, pull on boots,
down, hat, and mittens.
With arms full, step out back
into snow, greet gusts straight
from Saskatchewan, crunch-step
on the empty shell mulch.
Fill each feeder—thistle, black-
oiled, safflower—check
the upside-down hanging suet
as a woodpecker rattles hur-ry hur-ry
up the ladder of trunk,
and a chickadee-dee-dee seconds.
It's seven above: by degrees
the sun muscles into day.
With an ungloved hand,
swish out the water
in the heated dish, empty, refill,
retreat to the house quick.
Rub your fingers above
the stove, its warmth from
the trees you planted. Watch the pine
for movement, for the owls
that might be nesting, their hoots
of homing you've heard after dark.
Note the evergreens—the lofted
bird hotels, the thicket now bare,
revealing last year's nests.
Watch for fur or feathers, tracks
leading to the compost pile, now
emptied of last night's scraps.
The birds return—black–capped,
red-crowned, ladder-back,
their blues and russets and golds.
Even the sparrows, brown
and nameless, bunch in approval.
It's ten above: the fire pops and snaps.
Count your riches as you gaze toward
the empty playhouse, swings and see-saw,
until you hear the squeals and chatter,
perceive their dim movements,
the children who are now grown.
Without blinking, stare until the sun
reflected off snow
waters your eyes. Abandon the notion
that you own one single thing.
