The backyard gentle sift of white spreads
wide its eager eyes. Bird claw needle
point stitches track the ends and odds of
yesterday’s handfuls of flung out seeds.
Sitting atop its low eastern perch
of barren trees, sun’s brash reveille
jerks up its warning: Take a good look
now. I’m set to clear it all away
Let syrupy puddles flow. And sure
enough, claw by claw, the tracks dissolve.
Only the shade behind the shed stakes
out a small defiance. Sun does not
see this hidden impertinence. As
minutes melt one to the next, it does.