Wednesday, April 01, 2009

The Waxwing Flock



One flies, and then a few agree.
Several soon follow,
and so goes the flock.

It weaves and flows on the wind.
Gathering, again, in dark branches,
under grey morning skies.



In days I brushed away snow,
as my feet immersed puddles;
spying with a raised umbrella.

In a way, they’ve been my friend.
But I didn’t take their picture,
until, at last, the very end.

© 2009 Mike McDowell

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