December

Snowflakes swarm
and mound overnight into drifts,
sky’s addition
to a season black, white and cold.

Small birds flit about my feeders.
I feed them seed,
peanut butter, corn kernels and lard.

Owls fit out deep nests with chicks,
cover them with down,
and hunt day and night for hot blood
to keep young chicks warm.

Myself, I burn
gas in a furnace to force hot steam
through heavy metal pipes
too hot to touch.

For evening meals
hot soup and fresh baked bread,
the only thing
for peasants and royalty alike.

What's not to like
if you're warm and wrapped in blankets,
reading books in bed
while drifts build up outside

and birds I've fed
are tucked, I hope, out of wind
in a niche that’s dry.

It’s for the little birds I worry,
so fragile and full of hurry.