It was February, late winter,

and finally, as one storm ended,

and another began,

I heard him, the nuthatch,

even as

a fierce wind,

blew a cloud of snow off of the barn roof,

clutching an upper limb,

and I saw him,

in the big white birch,

in a sea of white,

he was a common feeder,

black, gray and white,

a hider of nuts and acorns,

a connoisseur of seeds,

My fingers hurt,

the snow was blowing into my face,

and then he spoke to me,

I began to understand

what he was telling me,

“the human spirit,” he sang,

his yammering voice

loud and nasal,

it would have been annoying,

were it not so beautiful.

“is stronger than wind, and ice,

and even darkness and death, that’s my song to you.”

I listened, cleared my head,

thought of nothing,

the hands in the clocks stopped,

I saw the purest white,

the snow began to sprinkle upward,

like gravity rising,

the sun peeked out of the mist.

“Is it Spring, is the sun out?,”

I asked the nuthatch,

he tilted his head at me.

“Does your soul need lifting?,”

he sang to me,

“Hurry then, run on your slow,

and heavy feet,

to what you love,

everyone has a chance,

the human spirit sings it’s own song.”