Scott Cairns
This morning the world’s white face reminds us that life intends to become serious again. And the same loud birds that all summer long annoyed us with their high attitudes and chatter silently line the gibbet of the fence a little stunned, chastened enough. They look as if they’re waiting for things to grow worse, but are watching the house, as if somewhere in their dim memories they recall something about this abandoned garden that could save them. The neighbor’s dog has also learned to wake without exaggeration. And the neighbor himself has made it to his car with less noise, starting the small engine with a kind of reverence. At the window his wife witnesses this bleak tableau, blinking her eyes, silent. I fill the feeders to the top and cart them to the tree, hurrying back inside to leave the morning to these ridiculous birds, who, reminded, find the rough shelters, bow, and then feed.