You hand out names to the hummingbirds that squabble
a few feet away—on the patio, perching
and racing past like fighter pilots, divebombing
the red plastic feeder that drips
and sways on a
hook.

We eat breakfast and we watch as sparrows
greedily vacuum the food you pour into
a shallow dish each morning. And when they catch us
peeking at them, they scatter, splashing
seeds—sunflower, safflower, millet, milo, flax,
cracked corn.

I’m off to my next meeting, you say.

We work a dozen feet apart nowadays. And
you haul it all—laptop and mouse, notepad, and books—
to the bedroom. I follow you with a chair to
the place where you attend these meetings
(and job interviews).
Where we plot our escape every night.
Alone together.

– Jason M. Thornberry