early, in the blue morning, with a dusting of wet snow and bitter wind, the crows make their way from their roost— their cacophony of sound traveling on the falling, thick flakes, from a height that renders them small black specks that i struggled to see, beyond the iciness that clung to my lashes
An exquisite cup, less than two inches across, of felted plant, fern or dandelion-seed down, covered so perfectly with moss and lichens and fastened with spider webs as to appear a mere protuberance on the limb, and lined with a layer of the finest down.
from Birds of America, 1936 – Garden City Publishing Company, Inc.
Our separate lives coincided, and all my self-absorbed anxiety vanished in that one fugitive moment, when a bird in the sky on its way somewhere else sent a glance across the divide and stitched me back into a world where both of us have equal billing.
in the blue light of dawn, the snow fell silently on branches,
the crows called to one another
and to me–
after watching them from the window with warm coffee in my hands and hopefulness in my heart,
the pup and i joined their play, like restless children after a long sickness, the cold and the drifting snow saturating us with reckless abandon