Out the window the paper birch
is deep in winter rest. No sign
yet in this Pacific Northwest
garden of squirrel or crow
or sparrow or dark-eyed junco.
I spent my childhood
looking out the window
at birds. Now I am old. In the news
Los Angeles burns down.
The forthcoming terrors
are here. But this living birch,
so quiet, its bark
papery white and copper
is also here. I hold on to that.