poetry by M. A. SCHAFFNER
Now with the chickadees and nuthatches
materializing in the frost-damaged shrubs
reproving the way I wear my scarf and
swear at forecasters. It’s not a nice day,
except that it is, which the least of us
appreciate each in our own little way
with a song and dance and sacrifice,
blood freezing in the cracks of the altar,
which is one way time tells us that it’s time;
another is to say nothing but let
a sudden sharp-shinned hawk relate the point
in a shellburst of delicate feathers.
Nothing left to see in this wintry yard,
or rather to hear over nearby traffic.