Last winter, it was squirrel origami: hap-
hazard, asymmetrical, grandmother’s
hat sat on, squashed, ribbons frayed
by rain and wind. Disarrayed, unfazed:
a Fezziwig Revel.

This year, a wren convention. Quick flits
and flurries, trips in twos and fours and sixes.
Chirrups, flutes. Such worms, such succulence,
such twig-rigging, feather-breasted. Bustle
at the window, chittered rustle of beginning.

Now, my turn to forage morning, tuck light into the corners.
Breath husked and squirrel-strewn, I slow, let time fold gently
where it falls. Light weaves this ribboned quiet into offering,
fog-rapt, before the sun has limned the tips of trees.
I line my heart with down.