Clark Jays in the Fog

Junipers brittle,

halted,

hibernating.

Underflowing currents

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

waver,

releasing a flurry of snow to the soft ground below.

I hear

gray Clark Jay,

rustled out of his treetop canopy,

Screaming, kay-ing, caw-ing.

Flightful freedom savior,

homeful homestayer.

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.

Somewhere else.

Disappeared.

The End

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