This morning the world’s white face reminds us

that life intends to become serious again.

And the same loud birds that all summer long

annoyed us with their high attitudes and chatter

silently line the gibbet of the fence a little stunned,

chastened enough.



They look as if they’re waiting for things

to grow worse, but are watching the house,

as if somewhere in their dim memories

they recall something about this abandoned garden

that could save them.



The neighbor’s dog has also learned to wake

without exaggeration. And the neighbor himself

has made it to his car with less noise, starting

the small engine with a kind of reverence. At the window

his wife witnesses this bleak tableau, blinking

her eyes, silent.



I fill the feeders to the top and cart them

to the tree, hurrying back inside

to leave the morning to these ridiculous

birds, who, reminded, find the rough shelters,

bow, and then feed.
 
By Scott Cairns.