A confidgity convocation of Carolina Cardinals
converged on the feeders in my back yard,
co-mingleing with Thrasher, Finch, Blue Jay and Chickadee.
They communally bathe in the concrete bird bath,
as as a stone-face-Buddha sits serene at its base.
They peck-stab suet blocks, excavating chunks of fat and grain chips.
They beak-snatch black-oil-sunflower seeds from Droll Yankee Feeders.
In a green flash flight, hummingbirds fight
at the red-bulb-sugar-water-trough, while sucking a drink,
ducking that greedy ruby-throated hog
who has claimed ALL OF IT as his own.
Wall Street has nothing on this feeding-frenzy-flock.
I’ve watched the screaming traders squabble on the Stock Exchange floor,
stretching like hungry chicks for a share
of Caterpillar or a thousand of Conoco Oil.
The birds are better at it.
Not bird has chirped his last
in a grab for a share of Apple, split two ways.
I’ve never seen a flock of Wrens
haul a dying Bunting off the floor
as his heart beats its last,
while Mourning Doves wait on the side-lines,
avaiary morticians,
Vultures floating in the up-draft.

These busy birds, all business,
have commerce well in wing.