Even in Winter
An under-stated twilight under overcast skies
softly reveals the splotched remnants
of last week’s ice and snow.
To the north and in the shadows,
white beds cover the underlying grass and leaves
in the places where the wind did not blow.
Paw prints trace a path
from road bank to barn to the treeline
that lifts bare branches stark against a muted sky.
Just west of the house,
hundreds of bird tracks and scratches
mark patches of once-buried seeds.
In the thin stretches where January sun
etched its warmth through the needs of thin cover,
winter stubble and bare earth show their girth.
In every storm and every season—
and not always by reasons easily seen—
not every piece and place will feel the same the same weight.
And though some may find the sun sooner than others,
there are none who are not touched and tested;
even those burrowed beneath the snow
will know that winter has come
and visited its sting against the marrow.
And even yet, the eye of God is still upon the sparrow.