Five birds, radiant like rainbows
under December sun.
The evergreens, their usual color,
the lawn still green,
lingering against winter pallor.
But suddenly dark clouds.
A northeaster restoring order.
The birds take their hullabaloo into a bush,
sing through the storm until death,
The birds are me,
caught in a storm,
dreaming of a distant sunny kingdom—
only songs sustain their longing.