The window turns pink —
dawn in late February,
rain coming all day.

Not quite spring pools yet —
just a February thaw,
woodpeckers drumming.

I dreamed of a bird
hurt, who turned into a cat,
moon on each wing.

The small comfort of
repairing favorite things,
pieces on the floor.

The confiding path —
we loop through the blue forest,
wild things everywhere.

The woods are all tracks
leading to the cold river
in blue-shadowed-snow.

Mute swan in winter,
she’ll take company of ducks
in the cold river.

The past is contained
in words, houses, and people —
visiting in dreams.

The light starts to fade,
golden across the river —
deer stand still, hidden.

On the darkest night,
huddled in the cold thicket,
my tracks left in ice.

A starling floats in
biting February wind,
surveying the grid.

They’ve come to scavenge
any berries they can find
after the snowstorm.

Thoreau’s worried face,
Leonard Baskin made him sad,
bewildered by time.

The wind biting me
while I photograph starlings,
wild after the snow.

We walk with worry,
sun shines on the oldest trees,
in this darkest time

This time of bad news,
our walking lake is frozen,
drawn with blue shadows.

Hidden and intent,
the red amaryllis, out —
in love with the sun.

Bottle of fortunes —
spun and rolled, one next to next,
to be, soon, to be.

One with neck folded,
two swans with their young signet,
like feathered ice floes.

This time of bad news,
the river, mostly frozen,
ice breaks here and there.