theirs is a quiet kinship
with an extended hand
offering sustenance
throughout this season of dust
fingers deftly pour seed
suspend banquets in the air
beneath a black walnut tree,
bent and weeping for want of shade
a cushion of sunflower hulls
softens the fall of withered leaves,
mutes the groan of ground splitting apart
goldfinches appear suddenly
shattering this scene of decay
they arrange their saffron robes
tilt forward as if praying
gather thistle in their beaks,
black as their shining eyes
eyes that follow familiar movements
of the observer
who sits behind glass and thick masonry walls
where drought and hunger do not exist
as the sun dips low, they sing
of the memory of cool sanctuary
and they wait...
for balance to be struck
for the wheel of the season to turn
for Creation to restore itself
from this season of dust