I don’t know why they stay.

The bike at the edge of a neighbor’s yard

has rusted into a memory

buried beneath the snow

and in a far corner

an orphaned swimming pool ladder

sinks inside the cold

like a suburban Tower of Pisa.

It’s one of those days

when the world seems used up

but there they are again,

flickering from tree to tree.

Their wings fan out across the gloom

as if to remind me

what the sky is capable of.

They’re that blue.

It’s been winter all winter

but if anybody asks

I’ll tell them the light

that travels years to get here

is on its way

is on its way.