Four finches at her feeder,
a few more on the line.
I had mown the lawn
before she knew I'd started.
There is shade on her
back porch at this hour.
She says a few words
about plant food, a picnic.
I have nothing to say, so
there is quiet, birdsong until
a mad roar of boxcars
scatters our thoughts
like finches from a feeder.
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