The birds flew south
early in August and
it meant harsh winter—
your father always
knew to watch the birds.
But young, and ignoring signs,
we stayed in shorts
until the first snow.
Even then, hopped
about in the cold
with fair warning
and wondered what
love could be found
amid the snow.
We watched together
as it melted in the little
fingers and notches
up your spine,
my rough hands careless
as they broke the boundaries
of your back.

The birds flew south early,
years later now, nature proving
herself yet again
as the cold came quick.
Your father was dead by then—
I had seen him buried
where winter could all but touch him.
Still, we thought of him all the same.
Still, the birds left all the same,
with him and without him.
Nature moves curiously and
passes in gray August fog
towards the thick, unseeing winter.

Amongst it once more,
I couldn't help but remember
the fear, steeped in passion,
as he caught us making love
that first time in the old shed
behind the farmhouse.