A crisp sun rises through
branches of last season’s apples
that birds have hollowed into
lanterns. Their reds glow.
The air is an orchestra of
courtship and bickering.
I watch the pairings
from my first floor window,
nestling into the comfort and
creak of my wicker chair,
limbs tucked into me like wings.
The heating stretches and yawns
and the house shifts its weight
as though impatient for me to pick up
the courage to stand at the threshold
and step out.