Walking Up the Road in Early January

Perhaps the animal in us sensed the coming storm,

in the exposed branches and a pallid sun that never rose

above the treetops, as if too tired or half-dreaming.

Sure enough, snow began falling as we slept

and had muffled the woods by morning. Cardinals

flocked to the ice-rimed feeders and juncos

fought for every seed that fell, pink claws scratching

in the snow. Blue jays speared the nuts we scattered

and flew off to bury them in secret caches.

Sometimes I long for a hunger that primal. Not

food for the body but a spirit fire, a purpose

so fierce and focused only its feeding matters.

Last night I dreamed that my father had died.

My sister came to tell me. He was walking across

an empty field and just dropped his body, she said,

like an old coat no longer needed. Then

he went on, the air around him glowing.

This morning, I went out to shovel snow

and feed the birds. The tracks of a fox

edged the meadow, where in the fertile dark

underground, seeds we have sown slumber.