Call it a ministry of motion,
this bird-feeder, perched not on shepherd’s hook
but on the hip of an old satellite pole—
relic of a time when we pointed our plates to the sky
for news, for signal, for a bit of the world.
Now, we tune to a wilder channel,
my phone ringing like a town crier—
“Visitor at the feeder!”—each new wing and whisker
a headline in my hand,
reminding me that hope returns,
sometimes feathered, sometimes furred.
The squirrel is the first to arrive—
an unscheduled broadcast, a local legend,
his belly so plump and proud I swear
he grows by the gigabyte, swelling
with the hush of stolen seed.
He stretches, he dangles,
gravity and greed in a furry suit,
filling himself on this broadcast buffet—
each day a little rounder,
his audacity making me laugh,
even as the ration for the others runs thin.
Still, the birds make their entrance:
A cardinal—a flare, a fire, a stanza—
wearing red like an anthem.
Red-winged blackbird, soldiering in with flags
on his shoulders, the herald of rain and revolution.
Eastern bluebird, soft-spoken, blue as the dream
we thought we’d lost.
House finch, black-capped chickadee—
every note in this backyard symphony,
each arrival announced with a ping,
a reminder: we are still tuned in
to the ordinary miracles, the untelevised grace.
Sometimes, a pine grosbeak lands, rare as rain in July,
and the Carolina wren, bold in brown,
steps out like a secret finally spoken.
All of them come, again and again,
proof that beauty doesn’t need a password or a promise,
just a place to land,
a feeder on a post outliving its original purpose,
technology reborn as sanctuary.
Yet, in all this plenty, I wait
for the mockingbird—my favorite—
with his bright white stripes
that flash like punctuation in flight,
his chorus of borrowed songs
an aria stitched from memory and longing.
I scan the feed, hoping for that flash,
that mimic’s voice turning dusk to opera—
but no ping comes for him,
not yet. And so, a hush,
a small ache among the joy,
a silent spot in the broadcast
where I send my hope skyward:
May he find this feeder soon.
May he know there’s a place here
for every song—
especially the ones we’re waiting to hear.
I watch it all, the world visiting me—
a live feed, a newscast,
a poem arriving on wings and paws—
and I understand:
Progress is not just what we invent,
but what we invite.
And hope is a signal that keeps coming back,
growing stronger,
one unexpected visitor at a time.
