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.