What I need is to walk out in the snow with my arms folded over my chest
and look at the bent limbs with consternation.
Ill stand there and wait for a thousand waxwings
to sift down through the stillness and air.
Ill wait there three more years until they destroy
finally the Juniper on my back stoop, rise like a snapped sheet
with one old hawk chasing them, or one big crow.
I know at least one of them will slam into my kitchen window,
drunk of the rotten, fermented berries, and slide, cartoon-like,
slowly, pathetically down, wake up confused,
fly off and leave me forever. And once is enough. And today
my heart is this ravaged, broken tree, and today I am one great bird
made of a thousand smaller than I, and I cant tell if Im chasing
or following the others to the next ruin.