Morning Stroll

it’s of no consequence

the bare black trees in winter’s drab stasis,

vertical snags frozen in tableau like gnarled crones

all black-souled and twisted

but no consequence to me,

nor the solitary heron still standing, still

stolid sentry in a field’s dead center under grey sky

watching from the corner of his eye that sliver of blue

drifting this way if it will alter his view

or mine,

for my wife thinks dead wood is beautiful

and maybe she’s right

but my mind is on gnarled twisted humans

in their extremity frozen alone

in fields of their own

scanning to see what slivers of blue

might alter their fortune too.

they, I think,

they are beautiful.

therefore, none of us has it easy.