Juncos

 

Juncos

In winter, invisible on the leaf-layered, snow-dusted lawn,
slate-colored juncos, dozens at a time.

Mud birds I call them, after the dark gray
mud birds I gave to my mother one Christmas,

captured in rough clay. My mother
loves them as I do, for their modest, persistent

beauty. She sets them out on the dark wood table
where they hide. She glues back a broken beak.

In winter, they are always among us, seed-seeking,
silent, gorgeous in their gray.