Expecting Songbirds.

   We stopped feeding the birds
   because raccoons were climbing up
   on the deck to feast on the spill seed,
   and though the kids enjoyed seeing them
   at least as much as the birds, I did not
   feel safe with their teeth and claws
   so close to our lives.

   But my son misses his sister, off
   to the grown-up world of first grade,
   the baby too young to talk to him or
   share his elaborate play, so we have
   put the feeder up again, though
   for the second day we have had no
   finches, purple or gold, nor juncos,
   titmice, nuthatches and certainly
   no cardinals nor jays bringing their color
   to our weathered grey deck.

   Yet my son sits, a half hour after dawn,
   in the cold room next to the deck's sliding glass
   door, waiting, expecting songbirds.
   I tell him it might be hours, days
   before they see the seed;
   he is certain it will be sooner,
   since he is whispering an invitation, over
   and over again, a prayer of welcome.
   I bring him his favorite, soft, pale
   blue blanket, his lady-bug pillow,
   understanding I have to comfort
   such faith, for as long as it takes,
   for as long as it lasts.