Tiny Blue

pitchers of sugar water near windows
reflect sunshine on mornings
like these, the cracked opening allowing
birds to visit, stepping one
prehistoric foot onto the ledge
then another, until they perch outside
the blocked-square translucent abode
meant to trap.

such devices seem unfair,
so picturesque: first red birds, jays,
then chickadees track the sugar water,
sip deeply and follow
to the crystal home, stepping inside
to memories of flight.

the quiet tinkle of wind chimes entices
tiny neon birds, their bodies
so slight, almost invisible
in fractured light: rainbow colors
refract and cameras snap digital
captures, no confusion, just the
tiny neon blues fluttering against
a pane so invisible it stops motion
and tames wind song’s spark.