Alphabet of Days (9 & 19)

9.

In the Here, Late Summer

Morning climbs the arbor post
to a branch-metal arm that holds
the glass feeder, a tear of blue
and sienna, swiveled to the west

She sits on top – grass-green
on the shoulder, a tiny kingdom –
as if the last wilderness throbbed
its soft, muted purr into wings

—winter, in memory, Ann Richman

19.

sparrows, two, maybe three,
outside my window, lift
one voice against the cold

– measured, desperate –

to will spring into place
and leave this thinned fog
to its going