Front Yard Branches

Bare branches
chatter and sing.
“Be assured, little things,
that I will feed you.”
I pull my fingers
out of glove finger-places
to make fists of my hands,
clenching.
“Ahhh.  Warm!”
I remember your
small downy bodies
against biting wind.
“I will feed you.”
Enticing predators?

I think.

I ponder this while looking.
Eagle flies overhead,
south, following the river.
Snow on hills for miles.
Ice packs moving on the dark water.
Without a doubt,
“I will feed you.”

Find respite in the
umber branches of evergreens.