Slow down, land on the rim
that surrounds the feeder,
filled with clear nectar.
Red nectar, I understand, is
harmful to you. Rest and lap your fill.

Today is the first time I have seen you.
I only got a glimpse of your yellow side
and then you fly up into the Maple.
I know you are feeding,
for I have filled the feeders six times.

While I have waited for your return,
a red, dually pick-up, a noisy diesel,
pulls into the driveway across the street.
The driver gets out and goes to the door
off the carport to the right and rings the doorbell.

He looks across the street at me,
writing, and then goes to the front door,
rings the doorbell and waits,
patiently,  like I wait for your return.
A lady, in towels, one for body, one for hair,

opens the door. He looks at me again.
Before you return, a grey, Dodge 200, pulls
into the grass beside the red Ford dually.
The driver gets out, walks through the carport,
and unlocks the door there.

I have waited all this time,
writing only this one rhyme,
and you do not return.
The first man exits the front door,
gets into his noisy truck and leaves.

I will not wait
until the second man leaves.
I will catch a glimpse of you
when I have more time to sit
and read or write.

I will fill the feeders,  
as you empty them,
come sunshine or come rain.