This flock tells time.
They swoop into my yard
on December 3rd and light
on the highest branches.
I know what they are up to.
Look how they stand still,
trying to pass for last leaves.
For a moment, I believe
they will stay until spring.
From branches of oaks,
they scope my birdhouses,
then glide down,
try each door.  They do this
at the end of fall every year.
Every year, I am ready,
seed in the feeders. Stay, I whisper.
I need them to stay.
They don't care what I need.
They wing southward without a glance
like the loved one I tried to keep,
who at winter's approach flew forth
searching for the great haven.

From Living Above the Frost Line: New and Selected Poems, Carolina Wren Press (2010).
This poem first appeared in The Poets Guide to the Birds (Anhinga Press).
Used here with the author's permission.