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.