Gold

I delight in their delight.
Their cautious flittering all about
the bird house, occasionally a quick dip
inside, to whatever hides;
I imagine something growing.

There are two.
One appears to stand guard, staunch,
as big as a golf ball, and puffy
against the human and feline curiosities.
The other I call "Marigold",
a red breasted beauty, maybe a female,
smaller, sleek, she spends
her time finding worms, bits of
nest for her home, comforts.

They are serious in their commitment.
They are not broken like so many china dolls.
They are not failures like lightbulbs in
an electrical storm.
They have FAITH
in everything.

And nothing. They fly
away at the first hint of rain.
The purple birdhouse sways, slightly.
The lazy cats take cover.
Doors slam in the distance, and
I grab a raincoat, the least
(the most)
I can do.