Chickadee
by Allen M Weber
In the sudden night before the storm, a banditry foraged
beneath a low ceiling of marbled clouds—a sky that has you
take stock of your losses. We sorted through a box of letters
and photographs, considering the history of each.
Oak popped and whined in the wood stove. My wife paused,
solemn with a picture—my brother, on his final visit. In fading
color, black cap awry, he’s still hand-in-hand with our sons,
racing headlong to somewhere beyond the focus of my lens.
How quickly snow covers the seeds that towhees scatter
to the ground. I went outside to fill the feeder. A windfall
chickadee, deceived by the light from our kitchen, fluttered
against the window, until, worn out, he let himself fall.
I pressed my finger against his breast. He hopped on, tilted
his black-capped head, and fluffed against the cold.
Weary one, the darkness bewilders us all. I’ll shelter you
in the holly hedge; by now an owl is watching from the barn.
![](https://www.hauntedwaterspress.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/05/CbAWIll.jpg)
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Allen lives in Hampton, Virginia, with his wife and sons. His poems have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies—including Changing Harm to Harmony: Bullies and Bystanders Project, The Chronicle of Higher Education, The Fourth River, Naugatuck River Review, A Prairie Home Companion, Terrain, and Up the Staircase Quarterly.
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Wow!
Thank you, Anton.