4th January, 2020
Mild winter.
                    In the tree by the window
                    blue tits chatter.
                    Bright buds of life
                    against bare brown bones.
Downstairs
               the radio hums warnings.
                            My mother cleans
                                         methodically
                                         obsessively
                                         the way I read poetry or watch
                             a blue tit build a not-yet nest
                             balanced black against the sky
                                                                          as newsprint on a paper              already out of date.
Wind catches the branches
             live wires
             shaking
                                            like landmines or arms holding someone they love.
                          Outside
                                      a stranger sweeps debris,
                                                    dead leaves crackle wildfires
                                      an airplane roars
                                      the sky gasps open.
                                                                             Still, the radio is talking.
                                                                   We are all watching,
                                                                            silent
                                                                            save the birds
                                                                            who sing.

Attribution: © Francis C. Franklin / CC-BY-SA-3.0; image has been cropped


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