My young garden calls out to me, chirp
by chirp, where sparrows sing sweet, sweet, sweet,

then trill in gratitude for bee balm— 
blazing purple bursts of fireworks—
and lavender sparklers of liatris.

They praise dahlias’ dinner-plate heads,
folded creamy petals where legions of bees flit,

and the upright sunflowers,
the tallest birdfeeders in this haven.
They belt out for all the flowers in between.

To whom did these flighty creatures
once call out their gratitude?

Color from across the centuries-old
pasture catches my eye. Wildflowers populate
the grasses, sown by years of northern

cardinals, Carolina chickadees,
and tufted titmice dropping seeds with blue

jays and gold finches. A mourning
dove’s familiar coo-ah coo coo drifts
down from above. I look

back at my new sowings, then out
again at what their scatterings have built.

I close my eyes and bow my head
to the true keepers of this color-filled song.