Through my writing room windows, I see birds,
robins I think, bulky breasts like moist meat
of fresh-baked sweet potatoes, form absurd
flight patterns across snow. Dozens repeat
their slicing swirls while dozens more rest free
for fingertips of seconds on tattered
frosted limbs of our nearest stark oak tree,
fluttering coveys soon flipped and scattered
to icemilk churchyard across North Lookout.
Pearl sun pierces gray cape of sky, great eye
of light glancing down, beamed message without
words reminding me all life’s a gift. I
try to find peace viewing this massive flock.
Yet I keep thinking of Alfred Hitchcock.
Roger Armbrust
February 10, 2010
