![1.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmdZCYruaLyLttBqHA1WfhgvPxgCyCT2jzuGYcLpXZPbee/1.jpg)

A group of Dim peered toward 

Juncos have now arrived 

at the Oak tree feeder. 

I say family freely; 

I've just observed the guys 

scratching the strangely warm 

mid-February ground, 

never with much intrigue 

in the feeders above: 

House Finches, Goldfinches, 

what's more, the harassing House 

Sparrows. Nourishment will be there, 

they think, particularly 

at the point when my child tosses bunches 

of thorn seed around 

the base of the feeders. 

It's anything but difficult to watch them 

need to no end, gathering 

two young men bouncing to hit a soccer ball in a woodland 

remains from the ones 

who move and plunge around 

each other – stunt-devils 

what's more, pugilists, getting 

the simple spot to eat, 

letting just a couple 

seeds drop. Juncos are visually impaired 

to unintentional elegance, 

never recognizing 

their supporters – just 

here, scratching and bowing. 

I'm viewing the Juncos, 

perusing family messages 

about your medical procedure, 

while going after a light 

string, the representation's deft 

linchpin. It dodges me, 

for the most part, influencing some place 

over my head, while I, 

look down, need for everything 

what's more, compose supporting lines.