Seeds frozen in roof-ice beneath a bird feeder,

hanging from a house gutter,

swinging in the wind.

Tinsel, caught for three years on a twig,

twists and glistens for the first peek of cold light

breaking over the snow-roof horizon.

Frost on car windows.

Sparse snow in dead grass.

Trash.

The woman who collects cans, who collects dawn,

who collects the songs of starlings on the phone wire,

pulls her cart of cans behind her, hits the curb, pulls harder.

The tink of cans knocks against the cold glass of sleeping windows--

brittle fingers of sound that have stolen all the cracks and holes

from all the porcelain dreams in town.

The woman watches a crow hop twice, take flight,

and scream from a nearby tree,

telling the shadows-against-brick who she really is.

She pulls her hood down tight and hurries across the street.

---

Volume 8 Index

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