and pallid consistency
of dead trees
by midwinter, the sparrows
have grown
hard to see. Still,
we know they are here
by the sharp way
they cry
at the bleary un-
folding
of indigent dawn—
as if solely responsible,
as it limps
through the sky,
for bearing the war-
wounded weight
of the outcast
but stubbornly
oncoming veteran
sun.
