The Bird Feeder

Here in the dusk, clutching
the top step of a ladder, I have only one hand
gloved against the cold.
The other fumbles to unclip the bag and pry
loose the feeder’s top.
With the ground below hardened into concrete,
its grass won’t soften my fall.
For weeks, I’ve meant to make this climb
but procrastinated, refusing
to accept the evidence of autumn’s demise.
Now tonight’s forecast
has prompted my precarious balancing act.
As I grip a slippery rung,
in need of a third hand, half of what I pour
simply sows the yard.
Stopping to brush birdseed from my jacket,
flakes melt into the fabric.
In a white broadcast, the wind has begun to
plant winter’s snowbanks.

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