At night, the shadow of a flying bird
Falls on the side of my house
Bare trees stretch the sky at this place
Melting snow floods the sidewalk
I know of no bird that flies at night in Winter
Unless she was disturbed from a chill roost
By a cat or a late walker, or some new sound
And flew, panicked, under the streetlight
I have decided to move my house
With all my belongings
To somewhere else, probably smaller,
Uncluttered, where I can sit and write
I will watch the branches and the lights at night
The wind moving them back and forth
The birds lock their feet on branches and sway in time
And I try to write the final words to end in rhyme.