Annual Count by David Chorlton

In the softly drumming air
between the empty branches
spread against a white winter sun
and the evergreens’ rough bark,
jays shadow woodpeckers
who follow the goldfinches
when the siskins have left nothing
but busy calligraphy
on the dark, loose soil. We are counting
every kinglet, every dove,
to bring the books
in order for the date
which hold the record
of who flies to the edge of a range
and who returns
year after year
to certain corners in the shifting
universe we chart
by the opening, closing,
fanning wide, and folding
back against the body
of wings
with the click and whisper
of feather and bone.


David Chorlton, USA