By Bob Gaydos

    Wouldst it were warmer there would have been waves on the pond ‘stead of windblown trees waving frantically at me. Bending and waving. Bending and waving. More and more …

   Somewhere, there’s a metaphor, I thought.

    And, I thought, were I a poet, like Kevin, Mary or Zack, this essay would rhyme or soar with visions of Greek something-or-others. But, alack, I’m not, so it won’t.

    But this morning there’s ice on the pond, wind in the trees, and, oh yes, so many hungry birds to feed.

    The first, a surprise. A finch, its head and shoulders shoved as far as birdly possible up the feeder looking for… food! Please! I thought for a minute she was stuck. Good luck. Startled by me, she withdrew and flew away, leaving me to my chore.

      Feeder filled, in they all flew. Back came the finch. Then, Blue Jays and sparrows and yellow-bellied whatnots, red-tufted thingamajigs, one stunning creature with a bright, red head, many more sparrows, a cardinal, a red-winged blackbird, something blue, something new, and, wrens? I don’t know, but look out below! Here come the blackbirds. As always, ever more.

     On to feeders two and three. They are, the birds, I can tell, thrilled to see me. Manners have quickly gone with the wind. First come, first served. Plenty for everybody, guys! Eat the droppings off the floor.

     It’s a happy, bustling, wind-blown scene. Mission accomplished. Back inside go I. But wait, what’s that I spy? ‘Tisn’t spring, but I’m pretty sure those are croci. Yep, pretty sure.

    Because, what the heck rhymes with crocuses?

                                   ***

(Note to my numerous poet and bird-watching friends: With profound respect, I humbly apologize for this. Don’t know what came over me. Meant all in fun and wishing I knew more about both.)