Birdfeeders once drew cardinals and jays
And other sundry birds just passing through.
Sometimes a finch. No mockingbirds these days.
Do mockingbirds eat seeds? I have no clue.
Days grow shorter, colder, still, and quiet.
The clouds cast shadows as they mist my face.
Sunshine hides. I try, but I can’t spy it.
Nor can I hide; clouds always win the race.
Sparrows flock to feed upon my feeder.
Little shades of brown. They are all the same.
They fly without formation, have no leader.
Just feathered mice, no rose by any name.
God’s eye is on the sparrow, not the clock.
God knows your needs, so fear not, little flock.