Words waddle out from their nest
into the frosty day.
Each breath hangs
a windless cloud of mist around them,

a parade of ugly ducklings
on the surface of the morning
walking slippily across the ice
toward open water midstream,
where the current runs quickest.

Others fly busily into the garden,
perching briefly on the willow stems
and dogwood
cracking open seed pods
deposited along the branches,

their flutter-tittering non-stop
as they decamp to other still-life yards
before the sun can crest
the rooftops up the eastern slope.

While a few,
having taken the bait,
are now caught flightless
on this page,

waiting to be released
by whoever finds them.
 

23/12/01