I haven’t written a poem in years, and perhaps six poems over my entire life. Last Thursday, when a foot of snow was falling on Boston, there was plenty of time for writing and sketching.
As the snow falls
Hordes of juncos and goldfinches bicker at the feeders.
The losers wait their turn
on the rhododendron branches with their drooping leaves.
Abruptly every bird disappears.
A hawk cry?
In my cozy chair, with a cup of hot tea
and a view of the feeders and snowy trees
Cold and danger seem far away.
