Janice Setzler, Cedar Waxwings

Scott Owens
Cedar Waxwings
after “Cedar Waxwing” by Janet Setzler

They split the light
that filters in
through empty panes,
stretching shadows
longer than tails
across the page
I’m reading or the wall
I’m staring at
unable to fathom
its depth. Bodies sharp
from tip to tail,
sleek as leaves
waxed red and yellow,
feet never seeming
to touch the ground,
they favor gray
days when the sky’s
blue has fled
behind winter clouds.
They’ve come for the berries,
taking fruit
from small trees
full of leaves to bare
limbs of oaks
or birches, filling
their tops with eating.
They seem almost
imagined, something
not of this time
or place, flying
from spot to spot,
never coming down
to earth or resting long,
never sitting quietly
like everything else
in winter but filling
the air at last
with some fleeting
shades of life.