The stern sign says: “CLOSED
for Inventory” on the Wild Bird Store
but I’m banging on the door.
“It’s a bird-seed emergency!”
I plead. My feeders are all empty,
stripped bare, and bitter cold
is bearing down this weekend.
You might say I’m causing
an outbreak of avian obesity
in that jamboree of fat sparrows
chirruping and chowing down
at the cylinder of compressed seed
hanging from a caragana branch.
But I have assumed responsibility
for this flock of finches
and yappy sparrows. Let’s all
get through the winter if we can.
Meanwhile…
We pile up empty egg cartons
for the food bank, send tins of tuna,
that jar of chunky peanut butter
purchased last month by mistake,
spare bags of pasta. Make
sporadic donations when we hear
how the numbers of the hungry
are climbing yet again.
But it feels like such a feeble wave,
a dish towel flapping at the issue.
Dear heavens, how the waves of hunger
wash to the world’s feet.
How can anyone be short of food?
Here? Where grocery shelves
are replenished week by week,
where inventories remain stocked
and so much goes to waste in kitchens.
Economists explain: supply, demand,
the grunting shove of productivity,
the tangling paths that worm
through trade, investment strategies
and wars. The experts say
“a multifaceted response is needed.”
Yes, we nod. It’s complicated.
But something in our soul protests.
Isn’t it more simple than all this?
The explanations seem to contravene
our ancient urge for feeding others,
the inherited, inherent joy of it.
Our human history of sharing feasts,
the tastes and smells of food, its hiss
and bubble, the legacy of recipe.
The pleasure in stirring a pot of stew
far larger than we can eat alone
for others to eat with us. This
is what we know how to do.
Surely there should be some door
that we could pound on hard enough
and have it open?
The bird store people kindly find me
a couple of small sample packs.
I clutch them gratefully and promise
to come back Monday.
I know my Lady Bountiful
feeder-filling is displacement –
activity as nourishing for me
as for the small brown birds
(and that damn squirrel who shows up
to perch on the cylinder,
pull off the peanuts and nibble
with puffed-out cheeks.)
Some might say it isn’t needed –
it’s not that cold. Some might say
I’m manufacturing a mob
of welfare-dependent birdlife,
layabout lollygaggers
who’ll forget how to forage
for their plumped-up selves.
And don’t we have too many
sparrows, anyway?
But let’s assume we are responsible.
I say we need to share
in these post-pandemical days,
our glassed-in hearts held
separate, envious of sparrows
who can cluster close around
their swinging dinner table.
I say it will grow colder
before the sun comes back. This is
the time
to share what seeds we have
with whoever’s near, the time
to fatten up our narrow hearts.
Alice Major has published 12 collections of poetry, most recently Knife on Snow — which takes its title from the unnerving discovery of a large chef’s knife lying flat on the snow in her Edmonton backyard. She served as Edmonton’s first poet laureate and has received many awards for her work, including an honorary doctorate from the University of Alberta.
This article appears in the March 2025 issue of Edify
