They have cast their coats —
oaks and alders,
a bigger beech, cherry trees —
and huddle by the evergreens,
a-shiver in
December’s breeze,
fledged with lichen
so profuse you think
they’ll suddenly sprout wings,
take flight,
and soar on groundswells
of their own murmurings.
And just as unexpectedly
a stillness turns into a fluttering.
And then the woodland’s border flares,
and they take off,
a sparrow troop, put on a show,
become a presence that’s all airs
and angels.