Finches

They come in the morning

to work on the pampas grass,

their body weight bending the tall stems

almost to the ground before bobbing upwards again,

swinging back and forth like an upside-down bell

while they hold tight, dedicated to the art of foraging.

All day, they strip the downy seed heads

which they carry to their nests in clumps.

It’s late October, and the day is warm enough

that the honey in the pantry has turned runny,

yellowgold sunlighting through dusty windows

caked with summer’s pollen.

I am sitting at the small desk, writing this—

watching the finches as they prepare for a winter

that I’ll sleep through alone.