Molt-za Ball

Sweet little bird,
We ran out of birdseed two days ago. And so yesterday, all the other birds, those fickle birds, were gone.
You stayed on our deck most of the day, picking up the seeds the other birds carelessly dropped and left behind.
Your feathers look a little funny- OK, really funny. You are molting. You're probably a baby bird trading in fluff for slick, big guy coverage.

Mostly, you look like a giant Moltza-Ball of feathers, covering your tiny, bony body.
You hang out so close to the house it's odd, and you let us get really, really close to you, too.
Like right up next to you.
And you watch us. And instead of flying away, you just waddle a little further over on the deck. And fly when the dogs come out and scare you.

You even hung out on the deck last night for a little siesta.
My mother-heart is just melted by you. All alone, no birdy friends, figuring this stuff out.
You're such a sweet little thing.