At the Thistle Feeder, Finches, Little Chips of Sun,

hang upside down, then flit from branch to branch
in the cherry tree, which has been whipped to a froth,
blossoms on even the smallest twig, a whole rococo
palace of a tree. Lazy drowse of bees.
The air is so sugary it makes your teeth ache.
A downy woodpecker goes up and down
the trunk, tick-tick, tick-tick. Light hangs
in the balance, like the truce in the east,
fragile, temporary. The sky wavers
over our heads, a flag of blue silk.
Grass unrolls its green rug
at our feet. Peace, elusive as bird song,
flutters away.