In the seam between January
and the tentative unfolding

of the leap year month, textures
overlap, blur into each other:

the milk-blue of dawn with
the opal light that lives

somewhere around seven o’clock;
the outline of a feather

shed by a body that’s flown
in the direction of the sun.

White and grey speckles
on a field of tawny brown:

costume discarded by whatever
wanted to scale the branches.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.