Since the groundhog emerged and saw it's shadow over a week ago, winter faithfully continued.
A black iron squirrel and a pigeon are seated together on a sunny window ledge.
I watch them from our bedroom.
Poised in the sun, neither of them are moving.
They rest among a neighbors collection of rocks and a petrified piece of pale bark.
There is dialogue between them, I am sure.
It's been a long winter.
Spring is almost here.
The bird is balled up conserving warmth.
The squirrel is hunched over as if eating a nut, it's tail elegantly balancing the notion.
Fire escapes and bare trees separate them from my window.
An oblique ladder runs up the building to the sky.
It bends around the roof's edge like a high–dive.
A flattened replica in shadow lines the wall beside it.
Branches wave.
Church bells tell me it is noon.
