Once I thought I could feed the birds right from my hand,
     And as a small child
I ran into the field,
     a hand full of grain before me,
Offering, pleading, cajoling, threatening.

But the birds, as birds are inclined, took to the air,
     With but one mind, to rise to the safety of the wind,
To remain aloft and aloof, to be as they were,
     Blessed with their own direction, their own determination.
For a long time I sat and wondered why.

Hadn't I offered what was needed, desired?
     Why had they flown to where food was scarce,
          While I stood there with an abundance,
                willing to give, wishing to share?
But what can they care in their flight, their fright?

Is it because others have and would
      use what they sought, needed, desired 
            to harm, to conquer, to control?

Frustrated, I scattered the seed upon the ground
      And stood real still without a sound.
I waited a full two hours there.
      The birds remained up in the air,
           On the bush and in the tree,
Not one would come even close to me.
Were they blind, could not see,
      With the feed I offered they'd be more free?

At last I gave up and turned my back.
     Then I did spy off the comer of my eye
          That the birds did now in great numbers land,
               Hungrily, greedily devouring the feast I had prepared,
And I knew somehow that I dared not turn around,
       That only in my leaving did I give the seed completely,