Comfort in Small Things

I saw them, a glanceful,
a flock of small brown birds
whirl to the top of an aspen tree,
filter down through the leaves,
dropping from branch to branch,
shaking the leaves slightly
as a rain shower would do,
the rustle of their descent
like a whisper of wind as they
worked down cleaning the leaves
of tiny insects for their breakfast.
I watched them drop through
the bottom branches and swoop
to the top of the next tree.
It seemed such a flutter of
haphazard down dropping to make
the whole tree tremble, to wake
the comfort I take in small things,
that I watched like a man who lets
his eavespout leak to see the water run,
or finds a flurry of chirping intentions
crowding him from a warm bed
on a chilly morning.