You feast on seeds, little yellow bird,
as the sun melts into the ground
and the cool winds pick up
to stir in drops of moonlight
in tonight's black dance
of passing time.
Tomorow you will flit again
to the feeder standing sentry
in the midst of the yard,
unaware of the passage of comedies
and tragedies in the lives
of the people who put out the feed
and observe your carefree flights
with a mix of youthful joy and the sure
knowledge of lived age.