Thicket

Alone in the deep snow of January in this northern country
and miles from anyone else, (or so it seems….)

a thicket of slender birch twigs and thin head-high
branches cross my field of vision. Crunch crunch!
Crunch crunch! Crunch crunch! 

Blue sky listening.

Wet boots quickly frigid do their best to step through
heavy snow dumped just last night.

Numb feet become rigid. Startled,

a bird with blue feathers takes off above, a flurry  a frenzy
of small wings whip through thick air into sky so cold

it’s frozen, conversations stop, they're stacked on ice chips. Unmelting....
       

Crunch crunch!  Eyes water, burn with irritation,

nose welcomes the fragrance of fertile things growing green in
winter (somehow), my returning sight (tired, brown or hazel eyes?) 

slow to register what’s here and what’s purely phantasma-goric.