Balanced on the thin limbs

of eucalyptus trees, they wait

to take their turns—mostly phoebes,

finches, and mourning doves,

emptying the feeders too soon,

leaving trails wherever they perch.

I’m a mom again, picking up

and resupplying in an endless

loop for kids hopping and dropping.

But no arguments to interrupt.

Yesterday, from the kitchen window

where I spy, a house finch—not

drinking, not bathing, not watchful,

sat there in the birdbath.  I grabbed

a dish towel and went out to investigate.

Waterlogged in the drink, it couldn’t

move.  Beak closed tight, eyes not yet

glazed over, feathers slick as the skin

of a tiny whale.  I toweled it off, its life

in my hands, placed it on the ground

in the sun.  It flew off within the hour.

Today, looking out to the feeder,

my gaze rests on the lime-green

breast of a lesser goldfinch. 

My eyelids forget to blink,

I stare so long—break free

of some death spell. 

It shimmers in the sun

like another star.