I wrote a little thing today, for a friend of mine, and thought I would share. In honor of friends and good writing news, which I will also share when I can.
Even in winter’s coldest depths, when lavender shadows stretch
so far, and the sun seems to hang over the horizon even at noon—
even then, birds like a smudge of blood or a shattered piece of sky
dart through the bare branches, or rest for a moment
among deep green boughs. Or gray, black and white,
they flash and whistle, kin to the storm clouds boiling above the hills.
Like us, they wait out the cold, the grim short days. Like us,
they find sheltered corners, and call each other, and share seeds
and warmth. Spring will come: that is the secret they know,
the one they will tell us if we listen. Spring will come, sure as snowmelt,
and heat will seep to our bones, and our feathers will flash in the light.