The chickadees love seeds—
Sunflower especially but also
The tiny white ones, grass,
Pine or weeds,
When I run out I try other grains—
Millet, wheat, oats, corn, barley,
Buckwheat, throwing handfuls
At their usual snow bank
Or holding the food in my palm
Where they land, cocking their heads
Carefully searching, picking
Through, rejecting them all, no
Sunflower seeds, until I finally
Toss the whole mess out
And watch the blue jays
Fork through the snow
To gobble every tiny bit,
Even old boiled rice
Buried in the white drifts.