In mid-March, after
turgid winter
loses its grip,
but the land is still
toothless
and stubborn
and dead,
the small flame
of a cardinal—all arrow-
sharp angles
of fierce red
and yellow—may look
more than a little
absurd
from your window.
But more perplexing still
to your groggy,
undead soul
are his fervid responsorial
and its notes
of braggadocio.
What earthly utility
could exist?
you might wonder,
in his crowing like this
so early in the morning
about some new-
paradigm truth
long in coming,
the nature of which
only he was
made to know?
