The sun at an angle
to the slowly revolving earth,
she sits pink on a street-lamp
all posed, dark
wingtips neatly crossed, eyes
straight ahead.
The wind whirls some snow
and untidies the ground:
a glint of something fur-frozen,
a glimpse of something worth
possessing —
Heart, bent on conquest, gives
stretch to the wings, a leap
of power, carnivorous beak
at a crescendo of fight
with the other contenders —
A wild commotion.
Palish clouds sing a quiet
approval from cobalt sky,
the sun walks further
slanting, unfazed.
