Still they come, the birds,
not sky-filling but speckling
in discreet patches, moving targets,
keeping out of range, horizon to horizon,
tree-resting with folded wings
then moving on. Birds
calling, lingering the time of a meal
to flash bright feathers and fly where birds
go to be just birds,
find seeds, grubs undisturbed.
Spring springs from their wings unfolded,
defying cold and gale, storm-windy rain; the birds
still come, little heroes.