He holds vigil in a ravaged tree,
his fields, once tall with corn,
now snow-tipped stubble.
He accepts the unforgiving wind,
the cold, thin light – not wishing 
for tomorrow or warmth or spring –
alive only in what is.
I close my eyes, clear my mind 
of stubble in my own fields,
gather Now around me like feathers,
like breath.
When I look again, he rises
on fierce, decisive wings –
his crimson tail as brilliant in the January sky
as truth.
        First published in the Prey Tell Anthology


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