In the first hours
of this storm,
waiting fell steady
as snow
that broke
a moment ago
just before midnight
in lamplight
over a dark alley.
All day,
wind drove
talk of it into
drifts so
deep plows
couldn’t clear it.
They’ve given up now,
while the city
settles, waiting
for early squirrels who
will make new
tracks in morning.
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My back porch rail is
a staging area for sparrows
planning their approach to
the feeder next door. No
bird-on-a-wire tightrope, it is
wide enough for half a dozen
of them side by side. So
it gives three of them
in a line time
to think
before
they dive
into the crowd,
snatch something
they thought
they saw
to carry
away.
There are always seeds in the feeder
in Winter. I give them pause.
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The tip of every branch
at the top of every
tree calls the way wind blows
to mind. One hundred
and eight mudras
dance trees
to light
leaves disperse
below a forest of them.
You’d think
they must bend
to desire, but it is
the power of the whole
song that moves them
more than hunger satisfied.
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