Nancy McCleery

The backyard is one white sheet Where we read in the bird tracks The songs we hear. Delicate Sparrow, heavier cardinal, Filigree threads of chickadee. And wing patterns where one flew Low, then up and away, gone To the woods but calling out Clearly its bright epigrams. More snow promised for tonight. The postal van is stalled In the road again, the mail Will be late and any good news Will reach us by hand.