Seventeen-bird line on a wire —
Shadow breast against a cloud horizon,
They face the rain.

And here in the evergreens,
A fluttering of a hundred wings —
Praying to wind and wild
For protection from the storm.

And which would I be,
On any given day?

Is it history or habit
That sends me
Winging for the trees,
Song stilled and hunkered down?

You be a fox,
Searching the hidden burrows
Revealed by melting snow.
Or that deer
Leaping across the blacktop.

I’ll be a fresh plowed field
In the spring.
A controlled-burn prairie
Waiting for the new
To take root.

A lone songbird
Sits on a high, bare branch —
Soft notes falling into a cool wind.
One eye on the faded sun,
One on the coming storm.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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