Hardly anything flies north these days
(a jay occasionally makes the bleak
decision): the robin, sitting on a high
dead elm limb, looks melancholy with
leisure: he thinks, probably: I wonder
how or of what: small bark-searching
birds drift through the shrubs and trees,
the usual feeding, but in one direction:
I guess I won’t go anywhere myself, not
that I don’t rustle somewhere deep
and remember ice and wolves: I’ll stay
and imagine everything can get back.
Leave a Reply