Cedar Waxwing

This new slant of light in winter

strikes strange, otherworldly,

out of place, it’s very disorienting.

Fog hits steam, then splinter

of bare trees that cast no shadow

hits pure blue skies that seem so vacant.

Nabokov’s “Pale Fire” a misremembering, cedar

or Bohemian, this waxwing spirals slain

by false azure in the windowpane.

Reflection, the thief of flying jungle flower,

silky sealing wax caught in bright borrowed glow

bouncing off early melting snow.

Golden breast of feathers fade then power

upward to pale brown backward

of dull grays, The little bandit in black mask

drunk on yaupon berries turned sour.

Flamboyant red wingtips rustle the pyracantha,

yellow streak on tail, his operatic anthem!

Mein fierceness slips away a good hour

in the palm of my hand, waxiness fades to mahogany.

All murderous hordes tamed by winter’s balmy agony,

some new magnetic resonance sets us adrift,

was it wrong to feel its death a gift?