Out of Sight
The hummingbird feeders
I leave hanging for stragglers,
the regulars flown South.
Now is the goldfinches’ time,
diving through falling maple leaves
to rip at seedheads,
echinacea and brown-eyed susans.
Watching them tethers me
in this cruel time,
paralysis not possible—
it is time to string up
the suet feeder, scatter seeds,
harvest tomatillos and ground cherries.
All around the gleefully cruel signs
have quietly been put away.
What was the last straw?
Unto others done to them?
Delivering food from the food bank
I say nothing about the absent signs,
instead talk seeds, feeders,
how to string up suet
so the pre-hibernating bears
can’t rip them down.
Over morning coffee, afterimages
of hummingbirds flitting
through salvia and foxgloves.
While talking about next year’s gardens,
afterimages of the cruel signs,
like scorchmarks on grass
after the cross burned.