I wait for them
this dark spun dawn,
kinglet, titmouse, nuthatch, wren,
names so sweet on winter’s frozen tongue,
such feathered dancing
in this hard-edged time
delights the eye, and, yes, the heart;
where shadows silence
shattered ground
imagine spirit taking flight,
lifted, weightless,
singing, soft,
small birds weaving
webs of light.
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