Never Your Only Swerving

The poor thing is cold.
You know what that’s like.
If it were human,

It would wrap its wings
In twenty layers,
The way the poet

Wrapped up twenty words
About river snow,
Each its own closure,

Ending with the boat
Fishing in silence,
Leaving out himself.

This nestling’s left out,
Too, and shivering
Alone on the lawn.

It’s spring. There’s no snow.
You’d say it was mild,
But here’s a baby,

Tumbled, maybe pushed,
Too soon from the nest.
Don’t touch. Don’t pick up.

That’s the wise advice.
You’ll doom it for sure
If you bring it in.

Still, it’s cold, poor thing,
And there’s no light yet.
It fluffs up. It trills.