This time last year

This time last year there were droves of birds
singing my my maple tree every night at dusk.
A congregation, a rookery, a bellowing, a sedge.
They would gather and chatter
as if cocktails and hors d'oeuvres
were being served from the spine of the tree.
People walking down Dellwood would stop,
look left and right, finally up, wondering
where the sound was coming from.
I considered it blessing on my land,
a reward for something I had done right.
I would watch them from my porch,
wishing I were one of them, a common finch
crisscrossing the street, lighting for a moment,
filled with something I needed to say.