Flying

Goldfinches are holding their royal court.
Perched upon the feeders,
waiting on shepherd's crooks,
dancing around on the slinky
that keeps the squirrels at bay.
Gusty today -- the sounds reminiscent
of grde B movie sound effects.
Branches litter the yard,
wind chimes are beating out
a cacophony of discordant music,
and I've watched as the tiny birds flap
and yet stay in place.

They go about their bird business
unconcerned with weather or wind.
They retreat to pine tree nests
with fluff pulled out from
an abandoned puppy toy,
eat more thistle seeds
from the feeder buffet.
The golden birds know naught
of wars or inflation,
they are oblivious
to tax days or religious holy days,
they simply are.

One sits high on a suet feeder,
wings spread wide in windy balance,
and sings to his mate or
the windchimes or simply, just because.
Because he cares not about the things
that weigh down our world
and, perhaps, that is why
he can fly.