a yellow flame at the end of the long, bare branch.
When the cardinal lands it's as though
it is playing with fire. If she wants to burn
she should visit the daffodils in the front
bed, full of bonfire trumpets flashing
and proclaiming spring.
The sky this morning was mottled.
Between the lines of white
was a message of bright blue
a note to look up, a song to begin.
The yard is not shy with its colors
and the birds are not shy
with their hymns this Sunday.
It is spring-like here, the day long
and the sky alive with cloud
and these fleeting notes:
grackle, starling, finch,
and disappearing into the indigo,
a Blue Jay raucous and more beautiful
than the sun.
