Who stirred the flock of tittering, flit-footed finch flecked in winter’s burrowed stains brown and beige, a creamy crown distinct among peers assembled among the weedy fields and woodland edges?
A rogue among them, dressed in greedy golden coats of late summer’s stolen glints, gallantly arrogant in his per-chic-oree to a frenetic furrow of mad foragers, frowns from inky brow.
His nest–in spring–already fit, his queen awaiting, while the others peck among the thistle and dream to nestle golden wheat for seed-ful warmth when the heat of late season pairing in pale blue-egg tender caring lingers in hazy heat’s beckoning, he circles once in condescending flutter atop the crowd and darts in great goodbye to lazy longing of life to come.
A single black blink of an upturned unctuous eye winks in return, his bony beak enclosed upon a woody pea, exposing shriveled tongue in willed withdraw.
Greater gold yields edge; straw blown fire burns quickly.
A milky corona hangs crookedly, askew, among the feathery reeds on the skull unseen from heights among the dun of an earthen sky.
March, her equinox anew, changes everything–again.