The morning quivers softly.
The glassy sunlight sparkles
into the wet grass.
A bluebird flicks from a tree
across the marginless blue
of the sky.

All that drips, glows,
hollowing out the full
of life that brightly flashed,
and a flickering chill
blows the uplifted flame of days
horter and frail.

In the upturned claws
of the great dead birds
that are the snow weary woods
surrounding my house,
echoes a crumbling and falling
of icy sounds,

of crisp light leaves,
of logs and trunks cracking
and the wings of a hawk
storming from the tangled boughs
as if in an underground cavern
shuddering the air

in the frightful breakage
of silence,
that seemed an eternal
silence hanging there,
and a God itself loosened
in those terrible feathers.