Winter Landscape

The park behind our house
sits shrouded in quiet,
humped in a white disguise.
From homes ringing the park
fat fingers of smoke rise
mingling slowly with the
chill air. Few sounds now
of children calling their games

and the squirrels seldom
scratch our screen door
these days. But when they do
it's with a shaggy coat and a
new boldness, wanting to
share the civilized warmth,
impatient for peanuts and
relief from numbing season.

In the backyard the garden swing
echoes memory of summer sounds
not creaking now in sun-baked
leisure but groaning under weight
of storm-shelved snows.

The trees stand like ancient
totems patiently awaiting their
time, and Evening Grosbeaks silently
ghost their tops. A chickadee
flits from feeder to fat-log
joyously calling his own name

not waiting out this time
like us. He sees the park not in a
caul awaiting birth of spring
but in a celebration of his
needs. There is a verity
in the wisdom of his vision.