Waxwing

In February come the waxwings

Like schools of sky fishes

To feed on trees and bushes

With berries red as their tails

Upon icy branch of ash and willow

They descend like hungry locusts

Then alight in a thousand-winged motion

One rolling wave

Fly, little waxwing

Fly, and be free

Rest, little waxwing

In the arms of the cottonwood tree

Among the noisy clan of flyers

One heart beats rebellious

She dreams to be seen alone and glorious

In a still and empty sky

She watches the solitary eagle

She hears the cawing of the crow

But when she lifts her own wings to fly

A host of fluttering shadows follows

Maybe in the madness of the springtime

Or under the summer's softer skies

She will lift her breast to the west wind

And leave them all behind

But on her day of escaping

When she flies off on her own

But will freedom be a bitter berry

If tasted all alone