Matt Sadler
Waxwing
 
 
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.
 
I’ll stand there and wait for a thousand waxwings
to sift down through the stillness and air.
 
I’ll 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 can’t tell if I’m chasing
or following the others to the next ruin.