Morning, Missing Spring

Stirred by a wet rap of sleet, 

eerie white bleed of light 

through the curtains, wind tossing 

and turning, the elm tree hurling 

sundered limbs at the window; 

yesterday, I watched a hawk 

perched in its branches rend flesh 

from a songbird, spitting feathers 

like the darkest snowfall, 

winter’s grey void giving way 

to hunger, riling wing and bluster, 

the whole world ripping itself apart, 

wrapping itself in white sheets 

like a restless lover eyeing the door,

the thrall of heat spent, cold, blue 

hours looming long and quiet; 

I hear a rustling like feathers and 

dream birdsong, wake to talons.