Feathers and Fruition

From my living room perch

I watch a private aviary

pecking at my backyard feeder,

feathery descriptions

in sizes small and large --

not favouring pigeons who

remain until each grain

is plucked leaving

ample signage in their wake.

I wish I could leap from my

debilitating condition

(a stroke they say) and hurry

across the floor for an embrace. 

Among those feathery ones

I prefer mourning doves

who first serenade with woes

then come to visit. Perhaps

it is the feed that arouses

appetite, or to humour this

hapless soul who too laments

within seeds of limitation.

After wings scatter into view

they feed lightly

in mesmerizing rhythm

until satiated, not gluttonous

as pigeons. Bulging eyes

view my pain as I record --

wishing to mourn with friends.