strength of little things

At some point in the spring
the house finches return all at once
to the fifty foot fir in the yard.
Familiarizing themselves again with
the gray knobbled branches
fluffing in the chill
they stir and acknowledge
chime and song, their place.

Urban volumes increment
sliding in under old storm windows
the muffling released into
metallic static for the intervening weeks
when the soils surface heaves its thawing exhale
and thrusts us into new, wet shoes.
This awakening is sensational silk sandpaper
against my skin, squinting brightness hitting
my brittleness.

Finch feathers, small and precise rock down
to the dry, tangled raspberry
and I stare up the thick trunk
to glimpse a pair through
branches spiraled out above me.
I know that soon after I will find
one or two papery chicks in the needles below
top heavy and cold.

The silence of the winter
mornings dissolve overnight
the new, ever new again
rises in reds and greens
to wide weathered boughs
that so elegantly support enough
and never more.

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