by Bill Keller
Beginning in May, we take feeders out
each morning, bring them in again at dusk;
tall cylinders of sugar water,
some straight, some with a waist —
*
so that passing bears, their tongues
not made for tiny holes in plastic flowers,
aren’t tempted to smash all
to ground, lap up what they can.
*
We wait for sundown, then a little more….
When windows are nearly black inside,
we divide work, front and back, barefoot
on wood, tile floors, weedy grass.
In this way, we take each warm day’s breath….
*
Then the rhythm breaks. Sunset sneaks up;
we need flashlights in the dark. It feels
important to take a risk: Juveniles,
breasts gray as well-used dish rags
swarm for hours, fueling for their trip.
*
In spring, we’ll watch for their return.
They might fly each year to Panama,
but this will always be their home!
