Grace Cockburn has been a teacher, a bureaucrat, a corn-husk angel
maker, and is now a mortgage specialist, a fact which still astounds
her. She takes every possible opportunity to garden, write, nap, and
sit at the window with her cat and watch the birds at the feeder.
She lives with her family in Saanichton, BC.
The Winter Feeder
The juncos plummet from plum tree to feeder
drop like sooty snowballs,
as you walk toward them:
a disturbance, though you come bearing seeds.
The Steller's jays, that bully small birds,
are the first to flee;
they've summered wild, do not know you.
In their brief absence, the sparrows —
who have your measure —
take advantage, surge:
an inner-city drill team, can't afford bright uniforms,
but they're disciplined, fast and good.
And the squirrel, who plays Moby
to your Captain Ahab,
waits until your back is turned,
flows along a cherry branch, round and grey.
You spin on heel, and Moby,
seed hulls spraying through fine white teeth,
flounces down the fence line, his tail
keeping perfect time
with your gentle, waving arms.