The finch flies up,
Throwing itself at sky with wild abandon,
Trusting thereby to flee
The mildly menacing shadow
I am making in the window.
I follow its flight with grateful eyes,
Glad in my ache-filled morning
At motion so free of limits,
A body so blessed with youth,
In moments the finch turns back,
Perches on a laurel tree
And watches me, no doubt to check
If safe to return to feeding; possibly
Also to see what age looks like.
©2013 John I. Blair