By Kimberly Johnson

The birds are doing their birdy thing again,
Flustering about the feeders, thrust and wheel,
Giving the noisy business to the sun-

Flower seeds then whizzing to the windowsill
To inspect the hungry colors of the stained
Glass. I had thought that when you passed, they’d all

Pipe down, chill out, put some somber on and
Show some respect, for hell’s sake, for the guy
Who snuck them into everything he penned.

But the birds don’t mind. They’re like ghosts that way,
Those splendid, headlong numberless who fuss
Indifferent at the edges of our days

Mercilessly busy with the clamorous,
Headstrong work of refusing to be lost.

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Kimberly Johnson is the author of four collections of poetry, most recently Fatal (Persea Books, 2022), as well as book-length translations of Hesiod and Virgil. Recipient of grants and fellowships from the NEA, the Guggenheim Foundation, and the Utah Arts Council, she has recent work in Best American Poetry 2020 and the Academy of American Poets’ Poem-a-Day series.