Towhee

The rufous-sided towhee scratches leaves
Away, to search for food in undergrowth.
I watch him work. The forest arches eaves
Between the sun and me, leaving us both
Alone to watch the quiet workers scratch
A living from the soil. But I turn
And look away, toward a light green patch
Of touch-me-nots and a maidenhair fern.
The touch-me-nots hold fuzzy pods of green.
I reach and grab a light pod in my hand
And feel the seeds pop out. And so, unseen,
I let them slip onto the ground. They land
Onto dead leaves and roll away from me
And the sun, safe from us and the towhee.