The early sky is a ***** martini,
frost on the glass.
He scratches lightly, like a mouse
trying for traction on the ice.
I inspect the vacant home made of twigs
cradled by the bush in the yard.
Ode to last summer’s busy guests.
Their winged commotion would startle me
As I walked past, technically half naked.
Sandals! Shorts!
What wicked thoughts
as I pull my hood over my hat
to cover the stark white slice of my neck.

I give an apathetic tug.
Two bitter ends, connected by a short leash.
Longing for dewy grass—
or, I guess,
just breakfast for now.