in tiny beats,
petite sparrows
peck in presto rhythm
for seeds in winter grass.
bobbing ’round
like dusky rocks,
not feeling the tapping
of snowflakes on feathers.
tiny legs and beaks
pick and pip
near the colossal feet
of vigorous tree trunks.
sudden flights
then coil wildly up,
the course choreographed
for the charms of branch-roosting.
I envy the brisky birds
then dropping small like stones,
pecking and bobbing low,
busy again in the simmering cold.