Not even the birds

Wait. Come back.
The first to peck at the walls looking for snug bugs.
But now find only cracks, open and airy.
Nobody understands what we've done to the house. Not even the birds.
Come around the corner. You'll love it. I saved you all the fat.

Now I see them, two of them. And whiskey jacks.
Why are they on the wrong side of the house?

My feeder still hangs untouched.
The chickadees won't go near it.
The squirrel leaping from tree to tree has better things to do.
He could have it.

Today, even Stellar's jays
I stare at my feeder. Nothin'.

Greys with red heads.
I don't know them and they don't know me.
high above my feeder in towering trees.
I sneak over to the window, they flutter off. Black and white wings.
Gone.

Twenty minutes and now not a peep.

Dropping tiny chunks of snow, filling my little pot.
Thinking about mountains, climbing, altitude sickness and water.
I stare past my feeder that has yet to feed anything.
My mountain calls. The trail that will take me past creeks, valleys, up through the morning fog, and birds.

But first, my tea.
Maybe tomorrow. I'm talking to my bird feeder.

-Tammy