(untitled #78) Poem by bob barci

Can't really complain
about the slight chill in the air.
It's not really bad
and afterall it is mid December.
I sit on the porch
with a purpose.
A ride will get me to an appointment.
In the meantime,
as I wait,
out of nowhere
a large batch of sparrows
land on the now bare limbs of a Maple tree.
They seem to be watching me as I write.
Could they be the ones
that rest and slumber in the next tree over?
Are they aware
that it is me
that puts out bread
and leftover food for them?