Song Without Words

“Hope is the thing with feathers”
Emily Dickinson

All that remains beneath the feeders –
just husks of sunflower seeds
and a lone, white feather –
bloodied, sticks to muddied snow.

No bird song...not this morning;
only a poignant ‘pee-ew’
from a circling red kite...drops
to the ground – hard as stone
beyond a distant shawl of pines.

The pond – frozen solid,
and what of ‘Moby’ our one
surviving fish that appeared
out of nowhere last year?

Who knows? I make a hole
in the ice, give him some air;
wish it were as simple with you,
but then golden orfe don’t
spend much time down coal mines.

I shan’t tell you anything of this
when you wake – ask me
what it’s like out today, and have I
remembered to feed the birds.

Nor shall I mention
the lone, white feather...bloodied,
sticks to muddied snow,
or that no song is
the saddest song of all.