So spring turns slowly into summer.
Each day, birds busy in the grass—
a rust-colored one, another dun
brown; and in the hedge, a circle
of crows. The small one pulls up
a worm, eats part of it
then takes off, a serif dangling
from its beak. Surely, a nest
somewhere in the fork of a tree.
Looking through shopping bags
stashed in the closet, she doesn’t
quite recall how it was she wound up
with two or more of the same item:
cotton shirts, jeans, tins of coffee,
makeup kits. Packs of soap, shampoo,
cans of vienna sausages. But
they do help to fill up care
packages very quickly.