Itziar Verría’s Birds—2017

the silence of winter—
the common loon

dreams of summer’s lush lakes,

rushing rivers, it’s an ache

obvious in the eye
the silence of winter—

caught up in that arctic loon’s throat

that faint, ascending whistle,

touching the edge of night
the silence of winter—

my red-throat gulping salt

& flotsam, I tilt skyward, 

with not a song, nor a dream,

only this sash, this blooded scream

Itziar Verría’s Birds —2017

she was 

the black-throated blue warbler—

pondering the staggered vacancies

the soft mist 

where Appalachian meet sky

where the pine, stops off

and the mountain grows high

the snow, dusts in on an 

over-night howl

the gasping gape of the wide-eyed owl

how hunger has a flavour all its own

the wind of winter is fully grown
it lets loose its downy hair

to bloom out, to spring,

to rise from earth to air
but for she, that little bird, 

she sits & ponders

unknown, unheard

Tom Thompson

these Tom Thompson days—

the deep thaw of early spring 

seeping down into the winter dry cracks 

the breeze finding that strange,

twisted pine to pine along with

a sloosh of salted-dirt slush— —

we tap, boot print dams into the 

roadside rivers, a world of our devising 

where we are the kings & queens

where we are on the little tug boat

& we are drifting out to the gutter sea, alone & bobbing too feriously

swallowed by the gurgling gobble 

of the city drain

Oh, the sweet memory of this 

childhood game

before the spring began to sprang
(This art is actually entitled Early Snow but it feels like it could be a melting winter into spring capture, and this is much what it looks like this time of year only the evergreens are a little more dull)