On the porch in Balcones, winter 

A crow overheard: heading home for supper. 

leaflets of copper, lonely crimson, 

angry green. 

The end of winter on etched wood. 

Quiet— despite the silent thunder 

of a stretching highway 

across the bend. 

Metal winding fence 

from a chickadees feet, resting to catch the last

sweet sip of the trodden mud. 

A kitchen table, flour strewn. 

Couplet trees, oak maybe, or juniper. 

Jutting edges of cliffs— wrinkled with old age. 

They watch me on the porch steps, admiring them—

each crevice with a visible pattern, roadmap, 

dampens the ache and blustered winds 

creeping their way in from the west, 

waiting, gingerly, for the sun

to take pity on them.