December 24th

a poem about quiet things and hunger

In the field, there are mice 
hunched beneath dry bent corn cut low, and wild grass stems reaching tall and desperate.
Cold collecting in their whiskers,
their thoughts lie gentle behind the ears that twitch.

Listening for the snow,
waiting on the wind,

while the sky, void-kissed and dusty silver, holds its breath, too.

In the living room, there is a child
with pink carpet scratching their heels
and Christmas tree lights braided in their heart cage.

Drinking the dark silence of a holiday before the guests arrive,
worshiping glass baubles that hang on the pine, 

while the shadows make solemn prayers that they may feast on laughter in the evenings to come.

In the bare oak, there is an owl.
Wings raised, in pause, in petition for a swift and soundless flight.

Eyes bright like supernovas.
Her feathers full of endings.

Watching for movement in the dry bent corn,
listening for breathless wonder behind fragile windows,

while she aches with hunger, as sharp as a splinter of ice, spoiled for choice.