Now the mockingbird sits in the bittersweet, clear-eyed as a monk, waiting for the möbius strip of its repertoire, snapped by the cold, to mend,
and the grounded heron looks like a negative of a marsh-side cedar over there, feathers puffed for insulation. Dr. Zhivago weather,
and nightly now, under the snow moon, the owls are singing of love and death, the big ticket items that leave us tongue-tied.
Singing the way they were meant to, in miles of moonwhite on snow, in leaf scutter magnified by silence, in the fallen shadows of trees slain by this moon.
Death or love, his basso profundo across the frozen river leaves no room for smalltalk. Then hers, from a farther grove, I know who you are, too.
Across a serious bay, four states, and a saltwater sound, may you and I do as well through these redundant winter nights. May the sweet talk of the four of us never falter.
Best March Breakfast
Because an icicle thick as a pro tackle’s forearm has hung out there for fifty winters, and a nuthatch yesterday clutched it, sipping the dripmelt, and after sunset a shadow tiptoed across the deck, coyote, to sit like something out of Aesop beneath the suet cage, and wish, I am not hoping for the day when butterflies turn into money, or even the minute when a brown clench on the other side of this glass unfists a spider turned in on a grudge larger than any headsman’s axe. But especially because this morning the ground’s in motion, a flock of bobwhites foraging, their backs like pine duff. In only forty cubic feet, three illustrations in twenty-four hours of life wanting to be life.