The wind carries an antiseptic bite and also
the clicking sound of ice-coated branches.
A male cardinal calls,
He flits like fire through the shimmering
glisten of his ink-drawn world.
Winter is not silent, still like death.
It is only a cleansing pause, the quiet season.
Previously published in Chesapeake, a publication of the National League of American Pen Women, 1996; and again in "From The Front Porch," Spotlights #19, The Harford Poetry and Literary Society, 1997.