This weather confuses the birds, I’m told.
Seventy-three degrees in January on a Thursday afternoon.
The trees talk of former windfalls, widow makers,
cradled for baptisms under Cherokee skies – bark stripped
white like antlers tangled in black hickory, dried
leaves the rustle of balled paper.
Winter is barely out the gate
but spring chews in our ear.
The trees talk and I listen.
Evening Panoply 