WINGS
A mockingbird sits in the chinaberry tree.
The day is cold.
A bow-edge of gray cloud moves in.
The tree is bare.
The little berry-clusters in the leafless privet
are hyacinthine, tapering and purply-black.
The ground's a trash of dead vines and sticks.
The twig rocks--
the bird drops--who can imagine what he's found?--
and starts to eat.