I can hear the birds singing, where before
only the din of the winter wind
and the scraping of crow beaks against
the slate sky split the entombed months.
But I do not see the singers, only blankets
of puckered white, broken here and there
by the sight of what maybe once was grass.
Maybe once again it will come to pass
come the green up I know will be.
I guess you have to look up to see
those whistling flyers, in their robed choirs
of blue and red and mud brown,
but I keep my gaze more to the ground.
Maybe its faith born of sixty winters worn,
that the songs still call me in alarum to
the longer days. Then I can lift my gaze
to a risen sun higher than yesterday’s.
And a rebirth more than a resurrection.