A new year, and always I begin again. To wake up. To write. To cast my thoughts, words, dreams upon the water. To wonder at what it all means. What’s next, what’s new, what’s possible, what’s true, what’s better left unsaid, what’s needed now.
Slant light on the neighbour’s roof;
the first sun we’ve seen in days.
The snow glows with it. White hot. Hopeful.
Trapezoid rooflines point high up to the clear dome
and down to where the New Year and me sit
and concoct plans sharp enough
to pierce the ozone. Cold. Silence. Window.
The Monashee and their inhalations of sky. Breathe. Breathe.
Light is fading fast now, a vague
idea of what it was, what I thought
it might mean. Dusk. Blue land. Monochrome.
After you pour the seed
they will come close,
like they already know something.
Chicka-dee-dee, rosy finch, black-capped junko
compete for one perch,
unaware of other openings
in the feeding tower,
or your kitchen table admiration.
They appear to trust you
and your “original mix” from Buckerfields,
but the glass between you is a false promise,
closer contact will prove harsh, or final.
Still you feed them. See how
they dart and depart,
dine and dash,
your lush communion brief, at best. See how
they wing away and eat at a distance,
eyes on the sky
for sparrow hawk
who, like you, has dined here before.