At my feeder
starlings flutter, peck, push,
suddenly lift off
in a jumble of tilted wings.
Meanwhile, the poplar
releases its seeds,
surrounded by white fluff.
They float in slow, erratic flights.
Updrafts catch some,
lift them toward the morning sun.
Others drift in horizontal lines
like canoes dawdling on a quiet river.
Eventually they descend,
accumulate on my lawn,
soft as a clutch of down.

A starling all my life,
I jostle for a turn at the tray.
I’d rather be a puff
and drop not knowing
whether wind will spin or cradle me,
trusting in the mystery
that beckons me below.

© by Margaret Coombs.
Used with the author’s permission.