by Alison Hurwitz
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.
Alison Hurwitz lives in North Carolina, where she parents, officiates weddings, dances in her kitchen, and takes long walks in the woods with her family and rescue dog. Her work has recently been seen in Tiferet Journal, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, Anti-Heroin Chic, A Book of Matches Literary Magazine, The Shore, The Amethyst Review, Rust and Moth, River Heron Review, The Jewish Writing Project, Speckled Trout Review, and Gyroscope Review. Her work is upcoming in Minyan Magazine, Carmina Magazine, and SWWIM Every Day, among others. Alison hosts the monthly online reading, Well-Versed Words. alisonhurwitz.com.