In April, if the spirit moves me,
I devote hours of my life
to watching our two bird feeders
religiously. They hang from
wrought iron poles curved
at the top like Romanesque arches
and swing like incense burners
sanctifying the nave of our backyard.
Underneath you can usually see
grey squirrels eating in grass
still the color of church pews,
picking up sunflower seeds
that have fallen and lifting them
in cupped paws up to their mouths
in the perfect posture of prayer,
thankful for the body and spirit
of the seeds, perhaps asking
the chickadees to descend again
like angels and spill even more
as these communicants celebrate
salvation from the long hunger of winter.