A nuthatch, as always, hurries upside
down down the pine tree’s trunk
with utter abandon
or, perhaps, no abandon at all.
For abandon is the mantle I drape over
her from my human perspective. I stand at
the kitchen window searching for some
message coming from out there
in the cold autumn before
the wind kicks up to usher in
the beginning of the real true cold.
This season is forever in that undecided,
waffling, in between country. We’re left waiting
for the seven choirs of angels to gather around
singing their Lord’s praises, but here
we have only a nuthatch, the pine tree,
& the wind buffeting through the pine needles,
none of which care a whit for this moment
or what I might make of it as I pretend
to think through this rusting
merry-go-round of a ride
we spend our days spinning on & on,
hoping to make most sense of this,
our so brief time here together
with a nuthatch, a pine & the wind.
