Out the window, on mesh nets, finches hang
upside down, eating thistle. Each bird's a dance,
a ballerina, or some golden child who sang.

That yellow breast is also target meat
for raptors, who tilt on high, a balanced
soar and glide, lofty waltz, invisible currents—
till they dive and stab. It seems a single beat.

Out back, Madam Hawk sat at ease
the other day, her breast a casual ploy
of feathers, ruffling in a breeze.
Bottom-line girl, matriarch of chance,
she blinked at me, her thinking boy.