Gazing out the window

Early one snowy, grey Christmas morning,

I study the birds busily coming and going.

Tiny ones perched

- pert chickadees, delicate finches in their winter drab -

Balance on the thinnest of twigs,

Bouncing, bending under their feathery weight.

Raucous, brawny jays,

Flashing, dashing blue arrows,

Dart and brawl among the pine trees.

Capricious cardinals

Alight, aloof and patient in the further distance,

Proud yet self-conscious,

In their deep blush of red,

Splashing conspicuously

Against the stark, muted

greys and browns of winter.

Their counterparts, the doves and sparrows

Use their very ordinariness

To cluster camouflaged together,

Little knots of plumage in a row,

Sheltered from the wind,

Along the low-slung branches

Of the denser shrubs

Knitted around the base of the trees,

With their reaching, petrified arms.

As I follow the endless swoops and dives,

Breathing and weaving life into the dormant landscape,

My eyes fall upon the bright, unmistakable orange

Of a robin’s breast.

He who should be long gone and far away,

Escaped south, beyond winter’s reach,

Hops boldly toward me along the fence,

Peers quizzically, head cocked to one side,

As if he has an earnest message to convey.

In a moment or two, he is gone,

Vanishing as quickly as he arrived,

Ephemeral as the first sweet breath of spring,

Leaving me with the feeling, the sense,

That the visit was no coincidence.

Maudlin heart grasps that hope, 

Holds firm.