The Odd Triumvirate

His feather flame doused dull by ice and cold, the cardinal hunched into the rough, green feeder, but ate no seed.
Through binoculars I saw, festered and useless his beak, broken at the root.
Then two birds: one blazing, one gray, rode the swirling weather into my vision and lighted at his side.
Unhurried, as if possessing the patience of God, they cracked sunflower seeds and fed him, beak to wounded beak, choice nuts.
Each morning and afternoon the winter long, that odd triumvirate, that trinity of need, returned and ate their sacrament of broken seed.

John Leax