The dead come to say good morning at dawn
cloaked in regal plumage, ranging carmine to crimson;
sooted lores enrapture dark onyx eyes. Perched

atop the inverted bottle feeder, he calls
for his mate in a staccato string of sweet
whistles to draw her – pale brown, tinged

ruby at the edges – he boasts of mealworms,
sunflowers, and luscious blackberries eyed
on his flight at first light from ridgetop

to valley, and ranging between – a bounty
to feed hungry mouths. Their morning forage
not only will satisfy the restless hatchlings

back at the nest, but also settle my soul, calm
my wondering with their visit today – a harbinger
of news & good fortune. All is well in the world.