February
the low point of the year,
chill and quiet, filled with grey
as a color, a weight.
a half-ton dumpster on garbage day.
we endure, we winged things;
tucking feet into breast feathers,
the proud red-winged blackbird
is already staking his territory
in a voice like a rusty hinge.
It happens every year and has happened
every year in our dim instinctual memory.
the wisdom of the ages passed down
in evolutionary impulses.
It'll go, soon.
We are not waiting for anything.
not spring, not summer, not the ceasing of cold—
This is all there is.
Anything else would be an unpleasant surprise.
2/12/00