I love a breakfast of sourdough bread, warm and with butter,
and black, black coffee.
I love how sunlight ricochets from icicles,
how snow etches itself upon the twisty trunks of sassafras.
I love our winter wren whose summer song bursts out in delusion or denial,
the noisy jays of winter, who'll go quiet as the summer nears,
their sudden alarms that scatter other birds like shrapnel.