While Snowflakes Fly

With its eye on the earth
nothing is still
in a snowstorm

I am of a single mind
Six sided things
seem intricate

Snowflakes swirl as if in recital
Each one knows its own routine

More than pomp and circumstance
This storm is serious
as if all the particles of ice have united
to paint the world white

It is not a case of choice
So much for the metaphysical lore

A blizzard can be brutal
For the strong
there is calm after the storm

A hawk and a sparrow
make shadows on the snow
We can only pray
the sparrow is faster

What were you looking for
Sparrow, that put you
in such a precarious place?

There is suet in the local shrubs
Safety in the branches
Did you think the hawk
would come and take it from you?

Did you believe the treat
would feed future generations?
What is your excuse
for risking death
to soar?

Snowstorms sometimes do that
They fill your head with dreams
and incredible rhythms
and the music of the snowflakes
gets beneath your wings

But now you know
the air is thin up there
where snowflakes are born

Birdsong echoes
in the upper reaches
of the atmosphere
It becomes a feral cry

Snow falls over all of us
It is the great equalizer
For the moment the storm is over
and everything is beautiful
but December
is upon us

The river is frozen
and there is ice in the air

Winter has just begun
Snow clouds are gathering
Sweep the drift from the stadium
Build a bonfire, an igloo
a snow man, anything
to see us to spring

Awaking to Sun

Dawn tiptoes across the shadowed land,
Hints of flame climb over the horizon,
She’s a shy girl emerging;
optimism comes to mind.

Daylight trumps darkness with an orchestral flourish.
The early birds looking for worms make the first song.
Robins and thrushes and those rascally blackbirds
begin the morning event. Then come the bug eaters;

Wrens, black caps and chiff chaff – poorer vision in lowlight.
Glasses might help but the demand for avian optometrists
has not been met.

Every society has its bankers: Under the guise
of needing more light to find seed,
sparrows and  finches arrive on the scene;

Some freshly suited — others straggle in uncombed,
their valets obviously have taken a day off–
They all chime in.

The semi from the highway contributes its rhythm,
Even a missed gear adds to the composition.
A dog barks, a door opens,

The scent of bacon and coffee brewing –
The kiss before the commute.
Morning begins in increments and over it all,
the sun.