In my county the cold clung to March with talons.
The sky was ice blue, more glacier blue, and ice crystal clouds played a game of crack-the-whip up next to space in the thin atmosphere.
I want to tear that picture from the sky, paste it in a scrapbook.
My paintings do no sky justice. The only hope I have is to rip the sky from the horizon and glue it on my canvas.
The air was cold but the sun was bright and made prisms dazzle.
A male Finch bumped my window a glancing blow. He was out cold, lying beak up, little feet curled as if perched.
I made a sick bed of a pasteboard box and a fresh warm towel.
I repeated, “You cannot keep a wild thing.”
Once warm and with no apparent damage the addled Finch stirred.
I placed the bird bed outside my window.
Soon the Finch flew—I almost missed its launch.
I knew that bird was back in the sky, part of a picture I had some small part in painting.