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                                     as newsprint on a paper        already out of date.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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