drift like daydreams,
under the crusted white.
The miracles not seen are ones that mean the most.
You can stare at the sun,
because of the fog.
And the tree tips
releasing a flurry of snow to the soft ground below.
gray Clark Jay,
rustled out of his treetop canopy,
Screaming, kay-ing, caw-ing.
Flightful freedom savior,
About three of them leave shadows
lingering on my face.
I wish I was a Clark Jay in the fog,
flying away somewhere else, gray.
Flying away somewhere else.