Every day, if I disturb
the soil at all, he follows me
and gleans. He swallows
everything that moves.

I tossed him two short worms.
He didn't flinch (him, flinch?
a finch would flinch, not him)
but deftly tweezered them,

then bounded nearly up to me,
fanned and jiggled his folded wings,
and cocked a look at me
with his starboard eye.

I wonder why - when the crowd
around the peanut feeder
spring instantly at my slightest
twitch, and catapult themselves

off into trackless wilderness -
why he, this pair of cold, fresh
gift-worms writhing in his beak,
comes up to me in six or seven

little long-jumps? I know it's not
a thank-you, and I'm glad he has
no inkling of charity. I'd rather think
he is accustomed, bold, in all

his dealings with all flesh;
that, perfect connoisseur, he has
evaluated and rejected me
as being too much to swallow.