It is bright sun
ice crystallizing the bricks
breath of steam, the only moving cloud
The birds are back.
At least six kinds
The birds are back.
Stacking their claim to holding onto sound
I listen like a dull grey seed hugging my winter self.
A shard of shadow pierced with light reaches under the barn door.
Must walk home.
Holding tense against the ice
gentle cautious careful
Hold it tight.
