February

Black-beaked starlings Rise from their wire, Glean what they can From the frozen roadside. Others preen. Bird by bird, As if communally intuitive, Or commanded, they rise, When cold wind blows, As one. No one knows where They go when theyre gone. I warrant them in this The worst of seasons Emperors of uninhabitable Air. I bless the speckled Birds, their cackle and curse, Their wickedness and want, As they scavenge the ravaged Barn and tease the husks Of seeds for what they need.