The jackdaws fly through snow, no trepidation
apparent in their wing beats as they soar
above this leafless tree, their destination.
The pair alights, returning home once more
to glom onto and clean the site that wore
their nest, then eggs, then baby birds whose flying
began from these stout branches. They’re denying
its hollow trunk to rivals who must go
find other nesting places, go on vying
and flying further through the flaky snow.
(for Dr. Sturman, who reminded me that there is more than bleakness)