.
The forest in late winter has about it a stark uniformity
All brown and grey
Even the songbirds that remain are dun-plumed
And camouflaged against the brown floor
The bare trunks and branches
The dirty sky.
I walk there, nonetheless
And consider the contours of the hills across the ravine
Clean lines, unburdened by summer foliage
.
I watch the blackbirds
The wide buzzards holding the wind
Stationary, as the Earth turns beneath them
A dozen or more
Silent on their ragged wings
Wheeling higher and lower on the draft out of the valley
So close as to make shooting shadows like ghosts across the ground
Over rock and fallen tree
Magnifying as they drop down the hillside
Then so high as to appear only a faint line in the sky
.
The sloppy crows, gangling, as if drunk
Calling loudly, flitting noisily from tree to tree
Afraid of the smaller birds, themselves black, too
That dog them boldly, raising hell for kicks
They are old hat to me, like rats in a dump
They hold no mystery and show no grace
They are late winter itself
But today, just at the end of my excursion
I spy a bird perched on the branch of a sapling
And I stop in my tracks and hold still
And stare to drink in this sight
A tiny bluebird
His feathers extravagant and excessive
The blue of velvet
So neat and perfect
As if he had just been groomed
His round breast so orange
As to make the robin dull
Where has this creature come from?
He does not match any color here
His profile, rounded and fine
His pleasing proportions
Are from some other place.
I hold my breath and allow myself to consider this symbol
Of spring
Of hope
Of Christ?
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