She picks at this and that, her beak sharp, her aim impeccable.
Her friends gather around her, cheering her on, or competing
for last year’s garden’s last release of freshness, slow dying.
She forages, undeterred by her bickering counterparts,
intent on stealing what little there is to glean.
Deep and hungry throats extend upward, awaiting
what choice morsels, newly culled from the stingy earth
are forthcoming; gathered gifts from a mother’s maw.
From small bits of winter’s old have sprung spring’s new.
Here it is we find ourselves,
deciding what goes and what stays
in our frantic efforts to stay the course of time’s uneasy, forward lurch.
How easy to stumble over the tiny nests
found hidden under forgotten branches of earlier efforts.
There, life and hubris kiss to produce our next steps.
This new precipice, the hungry days of leaning
into a grey wind with unseen destination,
cannot deter this year’s meal from last year’s waste.
Photo from www.bbc.co.uk