All Soft Feathers and Flight Muscles

In the intermediate zone between heaven and hell

opinions and complaints, after much moaning, may

come to be held in common.

The way a flock of chickadees

moves through the woods, cheerfully, 

each bird taking a turn on point.

All meaning must be found, here, in the middle zone, 

notwithstanding fears that rend and own us, 

of dying unknown.

A Spring day

the flycatcher broke its neck against our bay window

nothing changed.

I buried it, somewhat reverently, in a shallow grave.

No differently, really, than I would a man

who'd died suddenly.

Who'd left footprints in the snow

which became wild lily-of-the-valley, running pine

then snow again in time.

After long enmity

Sally hugs me, asks if I've been happy.

A moment in a year.

February, the light is long, more direct.

It's meaningless, repetitious

but held dear.