The grove of royal white birches
I’ve always loved
Casts intricate shadows
On the pavement below.
Black on black
Like deer running at night.
A young fern sprout
Catches my eye.
Something shines
But nothing moves.
An old plastic bag
Flutters limply in the breeze
From the high limb of a pine
Like winter’s flag of surrender.
The rhythmic snap
Of the bag
Is drowned out
By the soft song
Of a faraway
Chickadee.