Moving
my woodpile,
I
disturbed a mouse
who
scurried to her burrow,
abandoning
her pantry.
A
riot of chickadees
crowded
my feeders,
while
a flock of waxwings,
a
band of silent ghosts,
gathered
on low branches
of
the honeysuckles.
Soon,
clouds began to part,
a
line across the west opened,
and
a slash of gold
woke
up the gray.
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