Two finches perch on my balcony railing
They stare at me through the window
I watch, sat at my desk, as they fidget
Their tiny bodies expand with breath
Feathered bellies rise and fall
Short black talons hook around metal, clutching
Glassy black bead eyes taking in my cloudy winter blue
They stretch and shake out their wings, waiting
The birds don't know that you moved
I get your mail sometimes
I wonder who you must've been
I wonder where you are now
You must've cared about these birds, that they came back for you
It's a strange feeling, piecing together the parts of you
I know your name and your interest in fashion magazines
While you don't know that I've lived here now, too
The woman below me leaves out a flat and shallow dish on her patio
She keeps it filled to the rim with seeds and corn kernels
Squirrels and rabbits dive for it
Like a child into a pile of crispy autumn leaves
The birds take too, of course
They peck at the spill-over piles on the concrete
When I see them, I think some could be the ones that visit me often, the two
Although I know it's unlikely; there must be a thousand finches in this city
Yet, I wonder if the act at least reminds them of you
You probably get prior tenant's mail
Do you discover a story?
Or do you simply throw it out, without a glance?
Am I overthinking this?
Are these two birds just random birds, taking a rest?
Does it matter?
Two finches don't know that you moved
They perch on my balcony railing
They stare at me through the window
Black meets blue
They stretch and shake out their wings, leaving
I hope they find you