The red wing of the black bird

Rises from the white ash of winter

Like the rising sun in the deep bleariness of dark.

The willow trees renegotiate with death

The sallow, gaunt jaundice of their limbs

Rejuvenated in the warmth to the spring of green.

I watch and see the blue sky reflected in the water once more,

Where the splashing of the birds, returning from their long wintered journey,

Are heard again screeching with excitement

Like the brand new child birthed from the dark wetness

Of mother’s winter womb

And singing with new oxygen the mirror image of life and sound, the red wing of life.