They natter as I slide by, a flock
bickering in the crepuscular light.
There are no gifts that come with this dawn.
No hive mind for these feather-heads,
grey with edges dipped
in the hot blood of baptism, just
a subtle gift of words, a susurrus
rising in strange, muttered currents
to fling blame back and forth
for the eviscerated mounds of crushed
rowan berries. Torn fruit-flesh lines the streets,
the sidewalks, the barrows of grimy snow:
a compote to spice the repast
of January’s shivering child.
January 8, 2013