A game of hide and seek, the birds
inside the boxwoods making shrubbery
sing and trill its desire (reminding me
of other bushes that burn with fire).
As I pass, they quiet. I move,
they start again, we play this game
of love, of fleeting signs and flipping
our display, of feigning and igniting,
such delicately tuned engines.
In the glitter of winter sun, why shouldn’t
songbirds rock the hedge — I walk on.