The Waxwings Are So β
howling this year,
brown crests tipped back,
open beaked to catch the drips,
they forage urgently for offerings
in the canopyβs upturned hands.
The cameras are[JM1] so baying,
hand-held close ups of the barbules,
the black throats, so real-time senseless.
What depravity, when to love is no longer enough,
when the trees are wailing for the wind
that cannot offer them shelter. When
we cannot give each precious bird all of our berries.
All that they need us to give.
The hawthorn is so screaming this year,
for the bloodshed, great mounds
of it piled on the altar,
begging for peace.
And everything scoured by storm.