By Carolyn Muchhala

Incandescent trees
are gone, their fires turned
to haze.  Blackened claws
rise to grip December skies.
 
Crow voices rasp on glass.
 
Clusters of fermenting berries
entice the sober waxwings
to an orgy of clamorous
song and flight and song.
 
Now seed pods glitter
now snow nests in hollows
now an impotent sun rages
and crow voices rasp on glass.
 
           
originally published in A Wise Woman’s Garden