February 26, 2018
A doe and her yearlings grazing under the big spruce
after two nights sleeping under our tallest pine.
The return of the school bus
Monday, the last in February,
fog thick and misty on warming snow,
crows about, calling in the ether.
The sole natural color comes from the deep maroon
of dried crabapples
too high for the deer to reach
on their nomadic path through for food.
The cedar waxwings have not come for the remains yet.
already melting at 7 am.
The spruce cones that I tied up in the apple tree
after rolling in peanut butter and mixed bird seed,
now hang naked,
stripped of their nutrients.
An orange ratty plastic net bag
that held a ball of fat,
has been long ripped apart by marauding squirrels and jays.
I wait for this moment,
our release from the ice and darkness.
Water moves across the dooryard and drips from the rooftops.
Then March 1 came Thursday.