by Carol Berrett
First frost glazes tall thistles
blooming next to the road.
I too, almost alive,
walking in a chilly mist moving in from over
Something else, gazing into my eyes
and the bristly eyes of the thistle flowers.
In the road just ahead, slivers of a rising sun
in the iced feathers of a dead starling.
Closer I see
she is heading home,
opening her tiny eyes.