Hungry and
mindless snow-
gray cloud cover—having been rather
exactingly expunged
earlier this morning
by a dazzling
subzero sun,
to apprehend
mildly—
a princely fat
finch must be singing.
Ensconced—
somewhere habitual
out here amid the endless
winter quagmire—
praise hymns;
perhaps to the round glory
of such a brightness
that blazes
independent of its temperature,
or perhaps
to the only thing—a few sweet twigs
and their hard
frozen berries—
all he needs, or has ever needed,
or will ever—
to feed
the bulk of his
merry, non-particular genius.
