The kitchen window

Every morning there’s a party

outside the see-through TV

above the kitchen sink.

The squirrels, cardinals, blue jays, and finches,

eat, dance, and sing. 

Even the woodpecker 

occasionally takes a break 

from smashing his face 

against the bark of the oak tree,

to indulge in the tasty treats 

my mother has left out for them.

They step and stomp and drag their feet

to a soundless beat of nature. 

Occasionally the squirrel chases the others away, 

though there is food enough for all of them. 

Little hands paw at snow 

that smaller beaks had passed over,

eagerly seeing what goodies they might find

underneath.

I like this one better 

than the opaque TV,

the one that sits in the living room,

dusty and forgotten. 

And this program probably costs less

than 10 cents in bird seed.

However, there’s a creeping guilt

that accompanies writing about it. 

It seems blasphemous—

like if by describing it,

I’ll spoil it.

I guess I’ll just shut up

and enjoy.