Finches in Autumn

They mad dash from the trees.

fast to find seed,
a dry perch,
the wind.

Under a silver-wash sky
I worry for snow.

cotton mittens,
substitute dolls
not under the pillow,
in my pockets.

The finches have gone brown. Are over alert.

wrangle each speck,
a tasty morsel,
from dirt.

They worry too.
With nearly a breeze
the clamor halts.
By Heather O’Connor


Copyright © – Heather O’Connor 2003