ENDLESS

And so on, past the remains of the day, as a big crowd gathers to hear the shape of things to come.

There had been roof tiles at dusk. Sand-painted orange clouds fleeting. Then red. It had all seemed familiar. Story told, they are dismissed.

But no two winters are quite the same.

Mr. Finch has appeared at the hummingbird feeder -- doesn't he know who he is? Small feet grip the suspension wire and he looks improbable, peeking out horizontally, taking the part of a clown just outside. Eye to eye we meet by the patio door. And then, perhaps for emphasis, he flies in closer, making his perch on the screen door.

It's not about the seeds, which have been spread out across the table by the planter box. It's not about the showers, sprinkling in fits.

Food scraps are better than seeds? Apparently. The compost bodes adventure.

So we make the trip, spinach stems and apple cores in the bowl. Egg shells. There is no accounting for taste. I toss things and pee. He hops onto the heap. It's fun.

The gnawing sense of my concerns for this improbable world that we might obliterate are gone. We are immortal.