Finches flash, rich as
bonbon foil.
Fluttery globes of
buttery feather,
still sticky with
sea-spray.
As the birds return
from Earth’s flush belt,
their songs ring out;
calypso clipped,
reminiscent
of sugar sand and
breezy beaches.
After a tropical holiday,
the Blue Ridge must be
clustered, creeping,
claustrophobic.
But in mass, they
come back anyway.
I wonder if some stay behind
to sunbathe on tourist towels
and mate away the hours,
protesting the absurdity
of migratory patterns.
pm poetry 