Year’S End. Year’S Beginning.

The wrens in the coast live oaks
wait for the crows to stop squawking,
then swoop for insects, singing.
No winter, here. No rain, either.
Last night the fireworks across the bay
were clear as stars in their first fire.
Then smoke obscured them, made them
streak like small comets. How one thing
becomes another, even the body
as time works through it. My heart
has seemed so heavy, but it lifts
as the wrens hold still like notes on a staff.
Light pierces a cloud & scatters in shards.
The ceasefire might hold. Bulldozers
might stop opening the earth for more
blood to be shed in the ruins. I don’t know
what more to tell you. Try to keep your heart
open as the door a stranded motorist
walks through, ghostlike with snow
from the blizzard, grateful for being
in time.