The Interior Weather of Tree-Clinging Birds

My oracles of icicles and snow,
a future told in cast-off hulls

and feathers tipped with pitch,
what prophecy resides in those

low whistled notes? The key
is lost on me, my brain & heart

both winter-spoiled. Yet, these
fingers are such soft supplicants,

they peel the bark in search of seeds
the nuthatch stored in memory

I come away bloodied by a need
to see the pattern in the portent;

alas, the shadow of the hawk
dispersed the humble seers.

I fear, if I deciphered anything,
I'd still fall down the well of disbelief.

Copyright © 2009 Sandy Longhorn All rights reserved
from Copper Nickel
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission