Brown chorister

bobs among branches of the Douglas-fir

on the Puntledge.

A paper-

wrapper of a bird,

its small barred wings,

but when it sings, O Mio Babbino—

it’s Maria Callas.

Winter wrens cluster

for warmth

like us when baby’s born.

We fall in a heap

like birds in a nesting box

mewling and sighing,

exclaiming this full moon

of a girl, this pipit

with the presence

of one who has travelled a great distance,

who arrives

                        perfectly whole, accepts

the risk.