No. 2 (NaPoWriMo 2013)

Chickadees, Starlings, and Jays

By Hannah Six

Outside the house

in which I do not live,

a sycamore is budding, branches festooned

with tight, furled leaves and

chickadees, starlings, and jays.

Fertile, rich-brown, the fields

are plowed and moist,

while, in the distance, a faint lime haze

gently slides winter's drab cloak

from the hills' broad shoulders.

Outside the house

in which I do not live,

an ocher-breasted warbler, small as my thumb, trills,
announcing his return and
the grand opening

of a brand new nest

in the same old spot--

where, yearly, the black snake

invades and eats the eggs--

under the eaves of the porch,

where I spent many a fine day spinning;

for company, a glass of tea

so cold it would leave

a dark, spreading circle

on the ground.

Soon, the cool morning mist,

summoned by, and succumbing to, sunrise,

will hover, protectively,

over the creek-carved valleys.

The afternoons will shimmer with heat and insect songs

and swirls of dust, the rumbling of thunder

mumbling to itself beyond the western ridge.

And a million fireflies,

like fairy-lights, strung among the apple trees,

will flash, in three-quarter time,

in the twilight, the blue hour,

outside the house

in which I do not live.

No. 2 (NaPoWriMo 2013)