Standing
Amanda Smith-Hatch
The snow has been falling for three days.
Juncos and chickadees, cardinals and mourning doves,
crowd two weather-beaten feeders; the smallest birds cling
to the metal perches while the larger ones scavenge scattered
seed below. Nuthatches and woodpeckers skirt the periphery and take
turns stabbing a suet block with their precise little beaks.
She stands at the kitchen sink and watches the birds flicker
and fret and peck, hot water running over her hands and onto
soapy mugs, bowls, spoons, knives. How many humans have stood
this way, oblivious to the water, the bubbles that swell, shinier and shinier,
then topple and fill the empty spaces, the kitchen clock ticking along,
counting down, second by second, the time of their lives.
Amanda Smith-Hatch
The snow has been falling for three days.
Juncos and chickadees, cardinals and mourning doves,
crowd two weather-beaten feeders; the smallest birds cling
to the metal perches while the larger ones scavenge scattered
seed below. Nuthatches and woodpeckers skirt the periphery and take
turns stabbing a suet block with their precise little beaks.
She stands at the kitchen sink and watches the birds flicker
and fret and peck, hot water running over her hands and onto
soapy mugs, bowls, spoons, knives. How many humans have stood
this way, oblivious to the water, the bubbles that swell, shinier and shinier,
then topple and fill the empty spaces, the kitchen clock ticking along,
counting down, second by second, the time of their lives.
