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Grosbeaks
by Mary Eliza Crane

Early morning wrapped in woven wool
white breath dissolving into fog,
one fawn lay supine at my feet
sweet docile sister grazing in the weeds.
Mother doe caught and held my gaze,
but bored by lack of threat
she drifted back away into the fog
my steaming teacup met, then glancing up
sunbeams crowned a cottonwood
that cast one patch of light
on the first golden leaves that drifted down.

Teacup empty, hot oats and milk consumed,
sky deep Nordic blue from a lover's eye,
on the smallest branch atop the tallest fir,
black headed cinnamon breasted
grosbeaks flock and call.
They take the best sun, and cast no shadow.
Unlike us, they leave some for tomorrow.


 

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