When the finches land, 

                                                     time stops.

Rose-feathered faces, sun-
flower seeds too big

Biting off more than you can chew is different 

with a beak that can 		crack 		a hard outer shell

But the joy of splitting open 
berries, scavenging their soft 
insides, leaving skins behind—

One of their white-streaked
bellies is bulbous, surely ready 
to lay her eggs		
                                                   any day now, 

                                                                                                    any day now

House finches, and I’ve been dreaming
of home these days
but this is home; this is where we make
our home, by fastening
a brass bowl with a little brass
bird to a fence post near 
the roof, but still far,
so far, from the too-wide sky,
and by weaving weeds
and rootlets into pine branches—
this is how we make home, too

            I try to remember to tell
            my daughter that the eggs
            will be pale blue, with black
            and lavender spots

It becomes a morning ritual:
the finch pair that has adopted
us visits, again and again—
kicking milo seeds in their excitement,
and thrusts of ferocity 
when the berries have gone, drained
beyond recognition, discarded

We come to know our 
finches—the ones who scare
off others, who are more settled,
glancing at our whiskered voyeurs, knowing
they cannot reach them, or at least
have not yet

They have an ease the others
do not share—twitching song
sparrows, greedy grackles snapping
up cracked corn quick
as they can—but our finches take
their time, 
                            eat 
                                                     slow.


                                                                              Time stops.


And when it seems the finch has filled her nest,
somewhere we can’t see,

my daughter suggests 

that I 						
                           light a blueberry on fire 
                          and take it to the baby 
                          finches so they can tell it their sorrows 

They shouldn’t even be here, illegal 
inventory released in the ‘40s 
                                                                on the island where I was born,
                                                                and by the time I was born, 
                                                                they were everywhere,
                                                                all the way out to the Great Plains

When the too-quick skies darken,
they are used to the temperamental tempests 
in a way that I am not

Hurricanes, I know
Tornadoes, I know
Blizzards, I know
But these strange Midwestern shifts—

Watch when the finches feed,
and notice their retreat, 	
                                                     impossible
                                                     as it may seem to notice 
                                                     an absence; I trust 
                                                     them more than any forecast

It is so difficult to find
anything on life-
span, other than the record
measured wild,
and the years they live
in captivity

And what is it to imagine
            a life, a history beyond
                          your own, to know these creatures
                                        did not start here, but have been here
                                                                   so much longer than you?

                                                                                Will be here so much longer than you?