mánudagur, nóvember 13, 2006


Modest little birds at the feeder in the next yard. They hop and flutter. Cardinals and sparrows. Finches. House finches. I haven't seen house finches in November in many years now. Their fluttering reminds me of the ruffling pages of a dictionary held in one hand; their little hestitant hops remind me of how I would skip from word to word:
O.E. finc
PGmc. *finkiz, *finkjon
cf. Du. vink, O.H.G. finco, Ger. Fink, Icel. finkur
cf. Breton pint "chaffinch," Rus. penka "wren"
Fine little birds, finches. When they spring along the top of the fence my November heart feels the weight and scratch of their tiny black feet.

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