I don’t need to die

to fly

off to the Kingdom.

It’s in my back yard

among the bird feeders.

While I sit on the white metal folding chair,

comoflagued by the bushes

on the fringes our wood lot,

they come,

timid,

cautious at first,

conscious of Something

sitting there,

silent and still.

But these birds are morning-hungry,

so all around me

they snatch black-oil-sun-flower-seeds

from the feeders,

peck at suet fat

and mealey worm blocks.

One lands

just three feet away from me

on a Droll Yankee Slider.

He keeps it between himself and me

and pulls out seed to eat.

He’s a sloppy-seed-shell-shucker

but neither he nor I

are concerned with

matters of manners.

He hops to a feeder perch

closer to me,

just as the morning sun

moves from behind the loblollies and birches,

suddenly catching him

like a spot light illumins

a sequined torch-song-singer

as she melts across a piano.

And there he is,

Purple Finch in sunlight,

his feathers glowing,

sparkling in the bright.

I praise him for his

luminescent wonder.

“You are so beautiful!”

I say to him.

He smiles at me

and pecks on.

While the angel-choir

rehearses in the branches.