Beth Camp Historical Fiction

Friday, March 27, 2020

Day 18: Winter Sparrows . . .

Winter sparrows and
an occasional finch still come
to the bird feeder every morning.
Already I’m forgiven for being gone a month.
Maybe for them, the seed
simply appears, and if not,
they move on.

Will we be like that when store shelves empty?
Will we move on to some unknown,
faraway place, maybe where the sky is blue,
and snow doesn’t fall in March.
Or will we simply stay
In this small apartment,
learning new ways to survive?
This morning, the birds are gone,
and the quiet is filled with doubt.

We're nearly in the last week in March, Day 18 of self-quarantine, and I'm finally back to writing -- or I should say reviewing and editing. Occasionally, I look for a poem in this land where snow falls in March. Today's poem came with watching the birds scrabble for seed.

Sparrows by suju on Pixabay
May you be well and at peace in these somehow quiet yet tumultuous days. Try not to watch too much news.


  1. Enjoyed this. What is it about birds falling silent that brings around the ominous feeling of dread...

    1. Thank you for stopping by. Your poetry blog is inspirational -- as are the links to poetry challenges! Keep writing. Be well.