Poetry | Winter Wings | Mary Ann Schaefer

Winter Wings
This time
of year the birds
at the window feeder
are not picturesque,
rather their bodies
collide wildly,
feathers beating
the glass, pecking
at the wind and
the eyes of one
another for any
kernel.  Their flight
to some place 
less hungry is
already 
occurring, this
is just a pause
where the long
silence of bitter
cold will encase
the weakest ones
huddled together
on the swaying
telephone line,
waiting.  Like
me, waiting
for sleep
and the deep
dreaming of
other world,
the flickering
shadows, the
rocking hum,
a pulse that
quivers even
along the edges,
inside the contours 
of remembrance,
faintly — a sound 
welling in
my throat, not
a call meant to 
attract or alarm,
but a recital of 
inexpressible 
existence 
pressed between
the folds of dark
conception and
the blinding gasp
of light.

Of all there is
to love, I had almost
forgotten the surprise
of randomness.

In 10-degree air I run
bare out the door, 
flinging 50 pounds 
of seed across the crusted 
snow as the birds scatter
into the skeletal 
arms of trees where 
peering down surely 
they wonder about 
this scene, this seeming
invitation, the silvery 
laughter, the emphatic
flapping of arms.