days and the hummingbirds
are not yet at war,
gossiping one moment,
quick to broacast terror and lust.
They dart and weave, snatch at sweetness,
feint while we inside ask
what a short season means
and when we will find the body.
Abandoning our coffee, we cast shoes
behind us, turn three times around,
salt grains spilling down our backs.
Outside a loon cries
like a hurt child, and sorrow
sings an old song.
Father would understand, but he is gone.
The present, hot and musky,
bears the weight of winter's white secret.
In winter, footfalls cease, the hearth fire
pulses, yet wars continue.
No hummingbirds, no gossip, only ice
and arrows, snub-nosed bullets
before dawn. Yet who will witness this?
Now, as yesterday's coffee burns,
my paper tells an old, old tale.