Judith Skillman

Avenue of Birds

Purling dirt
with their beaks,
flying in formation
alongside the window,
filling a sky
blind with rain
            and overcast.

Blurred pairs,
quick flick of water
from feathers
at the bath—
a yard where an old fence
falls slowly
into a holly tree.

When did the branch break,
the map
grow crooked?
Which hour held departure
as, between flags
of pampas grass,
others came and went.

The whole of winter
set like a table
            for a widow—
her single, white plate.