The Feeder

There were eight goldfinches
who gathered each morning
at a small feeder in a quiet yard.

Eight perches.
Eight birds.

No more.
No less.

The land around the house
was dry and open.

There was little to eat.

But every morning,
a girl came outside
with a small cup of seeds.

She filled the feeder carefully.
Waited a moment.
Then stepped back.

The birds came quickly.

They always did.

They landed in their places.
The same eight,
most days.

They ate together.
Moved together.
Left together.

It felt like a group.

Sometimes,
another bird would arrive.
Late.
Hungry.

There was no space.

The eight shifted slightly.
Closed the gaps.

The ninth bird circled once.
Then left.

The next morning,
the eight returned.

The girl watched from the window.
She liked that they came back.

She thought
they had chosen her yard.

One day,
something changed.

The girl’s father
planted a field
across the road.

Rows and rows
of sunflowers.

At first,
the birds did not notice.

Then one did.

It flew across the road.
Landed.
Pecked.

The seeds were larger.
Easier.
Fresher.

The next day,
two birds left the feeder early.

The day after,
four.

Soon,
most of them
did not come at all.

The feeder stayed full longer.

One bird remained.

It landed on the same perch.
Looked around.
Waited.

The others did not come.

Across the road,
the birds gathered in the field.

The girl still filled the feeder
each morning.
Just as carefully.

The bird ate alone.
Stayed longer than before.

The yard felt bigger.
Quieter.

The feeder hung still.

After a few days,
the last bird flew across the road.

The feeder remained.
Full.

The girl stood at the window.

Waiting.
Nothing came.

It had looked like a group.

But they had only gathered
as long as
there was something
to gather for.