The grove of royal white birchesI’ve always lovedCasts intricate shadowsOn the pavement below.Black on blackLike deer running at night.A young fern sproutCatches my eye.Something shinesBut nothing moves.An old plastic bagFlutters limply in the breezeFrom the high limb of a pineLike winter’s flag of surrender.The rhythmic snapOf the bagIs drowned outBy the soft songOf a farawayChickadee.