nest

twigs thatched,
a perch bleak

a snag of cloth
from a tattered somewhere

a spit of mud
and three feathers,
two lost, one found

and high in the tree,
waving in winter's maw,
it waits
for spring's tenants

four finches

a mayhem of calls,
a madness of shred,
a scatter of husk

and four finches
who will not
tidy their room

Bird's high view

It is a stark crucifix
in an ice blue sky
sliding the heavens
on the crank
of winter's wing