I perch here with my finch mate on this bar
of wood as smooth as quaking aspen bark.
I’ll tell you, life’s been pretty good so far—
far better than surviving in the park,
where we would have to forage for the seeds
that must sustain us through the wintry dark.
A stalk of millet with abundant beads
of yellow nourishment hangs from the ceiling.
A birdbath, water, salt block—knowing our needs,
our owner places plenty of appealing
novelties in our nest within a nest.
And yet, I have to say I have a feeling
that, though our habitation is the best,
we’ve both been living under house arrest.