Midfield, / attached to nothing, / the skylark singing. — Basho
First snow, first junco tracks.
A spot of clean ground. This is where the rabbit laid while snow fell.
Sapphire sky beneath a sheet of vellum.
The winter sky has netted a colony of ring-billed gulls.
The chill carried a pine siskin to my yard.
Christmas morning. The Carolina wren sings.
At the top of the sweetgum tree, a tail flicks.
Winter: The dogwood blooms with finches.
House finch: Your crown is dried blood.
Northern flicker: You carry the sun under your wings.
All day I saw the Carolina wren. Still, I felt such loneliness.
We’ve been apart for so long that I can finally think of you fondly.
A little boy rides his new toy up and down the street.
One of the juncos drags its long toenails through the snow.
There and then not there: the chickadee.
The blue jays have me surrounded.
Now the blue jays are gone. They’re off mobbing a hawk.
No shadow like a hawk’s shadow.
When I’m with birds, it doesn’t matter that I’m not with people.
The songbirds exit stage right. The Cooper’s hawk enters stage left.
Winter: A great blue heron slips on a frozen marsh.
Today, a man touched me on the arm. I did not know him.