On that first of mornings
As the new year looms
Cold and Bright and Crisp
The bare, brown fingers of the trees
Reach to heaven. And wait.
Nothing stirs in the frigid air, Nothing moves.
And then slowly, as if being warmed
By the timid rays of the newly risen son
They come.
Slowly at first and then in ones and twos,
They come. Then, more and still more,
Alighting on branch and twig
In a dozen varieties, In a hundred colors.
They fly about, foraging for food.
They push and shove and sing.
Proclaiming new Life
New hope, New beginnings.
Bill Schatzabel – Jan. 1st, 2008
