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A wagtail waking

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Even out in the icy, fenced sun, I was having an imagined conversation too long, too long in my head. Stutter-chirp sudden, from the left, a pied wagtail flew in, dipthong — and landed on them; the unsaid, unspooling words; aquiver under his perch. When he bobbed again, they misted and dispersed. I remembered the therapist, then in that room with the loud clock saying listen — there is also a bird . 
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Untrue ice

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It surrounds the balcony; fog, sloth-like, trying to look like silence. But the wagtail's chirp pierces through — the star-sound of  a bouncing bird. Call to me, always.
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The first robin

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The first robin of winter hid half behind a leaf. But I heard you, found you — saw your orange hearth glow; somehow making the ending of things your kindling. I don't think you know how much I need ember song to think on this domed night month — when I said hi what I meant was these words, this poem. 
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Thirst

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The road is stone broken and it rained the whole day prickling— but see, in the still, blackberry night, the mirage-like fox who has nothing, blessed silver as she dips her nose to drink moonlight from the makeshift trough.
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The Hunter Moon

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The Hunter Moon presides tonight in a last-chance dazzle; gleaming teeth in a suit. Gather , he says,  tapping his foot,  making squirrels of us — but they are born storm-fluff digger ready  and we never are.
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2. By day

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I would like to decipher  the morse code of birds; stutter-chirps, soul notes and write it down for you — that would be my work. 
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1. Dark window

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Your heart sinks to the bottom of your teacup at another orca sky this morning. But don't the birds, ever-singing, little whistle puffs, lift your chin — just a little? 
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