Sunday Morning

This morning, I shuffled out the back door with a bag full of bird seed to fill the feeder that hangs above the bird bath. It was cold. I shivered.

Sunday Morning

This air is choked with cold.
The maple’s bare fingers
are brittle, old bones, and the water

in the bird bath has tightened,
like an injured heart, into ice.
The seed I scatter there tinks,

clinks, kernels set on a crystal dish.
Beneath, frozen, two small leaves,
golden red, curl, locked in a flurry

of movement, as if autumn
still bid each to fly.


2 thoughts on “Sunday Morning

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