Winter Sketch

Leaf carried



left. Brittle-cold grass, where I want to insert



first the asphalt, first the rain



thawing on the brick. Silence unfolds



its loud mutterings.



Pierced by a cry. Black bird,



yellowed beak. Not pierced,



threaded. Bird finds the grain



of the still air, slips a voice through



and between the layers. First sees



the layers. Soon the instant



when the falling water is only



what falls from branches, edge of



gutter, off the leaves.



Taps on the hard grass.



New silence after



this one. I plucked a smooth



green needle from a low-hanging off-shoot,



the branch leaning in to me as if to hear



more clearly. Pulled bowstring.



The needle: flexed it between two fingers,



folding it in half. Pressed it between two teeth,



convex side down, flattening its slight



curvature. I would have closed my eyes



to do it more carefully.