When the Nuthatch is King
How still the world is.
How birds creep from trees onto the porch.
How the wolves range the streets.
How lamplight, soft, flows untroubled.
How the spring breezes dandle the limbs of trees, noticed.
How the business of the day is squirrel business-keeping, steadying in the wind.
The news is heavy with bright snow. Washing rains. The degree of the sun tending north.
How beautiful is birdsong on a day when the chickadee, the blue jay, the nuthatch is king.
To one still, shadows move. Suns soar. The Earth tilts, and I know it.
How beautiful to be rocked in the cradle again.