After the second storm,
twigs are trapped in ice
and a granulated crust of frost
coats two feet of wet snow.

A blue jay torments a titmouse
to get the last bread crumb
and perches on the window box
to spy on me, wondering
if I have a better gig going on inside.

I should hate this arrogant bully
but I am charmed by his audacious blue,
the memory of a summer sky.

First published in Blueline