I creep out; I have areas.
I contaminate.  Yet the cardinal
comes back to the window again and again.
Little red face not knowing what glass is.

I’m hidden.  Trees draw depths
in the forests, silent shawls
of shadows.  Braided in the bush,
lianas thread into the ground,

a cylinder of serpentine roots
revealing a well.  I step into
the wetness of the floor and think
of birdbaths at the end of April.

- Janann Dawkins