The breakfast table faces out towards birds
who’ve come, as we, to start their day with feed.
I wonder and admire, without words,
the calm persistence of the chickadee.
I watch him peck a dozen times to score
a tasty seed, and take it to a tree.
Now here he is, returned again for more—
I’ve never known such patience, no not me.
He’s not a showy specimen, like some;
his feathers just a mix of beige and brown.
But still he flits as though he’s not humdrum
among his dazzling fellows around town.
I don’t believe he thinks himself as plain—
He’s beige and brown, and such he will remain.