SNOWBIRDS

The morning after a prairie winter storm,
an old, frost-heaved, white house stood
alone with its uninsulated walls and floors.
Its roof, icicle-laden.
Wavy windows lace-frosted and
edge with ice.

"They are here!" the mother said
as her warm hand melts a little clearing
in a low pane of one of the windows.
A child peers through to a stark white field.

Tiny birds flit and
alight just outside.
Their little wings send puffs of
snow into the frigid air.
Clean white breasts,
dark gray backs.
White flashes as they
leave the child watching.

"They are snowbirds"
she said.
                                            -Clem J. Nagel