Birds moving in the dead of winter –
where to? Half the tribe
whirls towards the west, then
breaks with sudden panic, flapping
to an open tree; they mark
its naked branches
hot-house blooms forced open
or scarves that burst, unfurling in a magic trick.
Tuned up in loud plurality,
they once again alight,
some left, some right.
Another of nature’s children
caught so glaringly in their confusion?
Whose glare? What moves me in sync
with their confusion? What desire?
What winter dance?