The mourning doves, in morning, come
to wake the frozen yard with low white sighs.
Later come the wrens and finches, the towhee
with his pylon-colored breast.
The cusp of winter, edge of spring
does not so much unsettle as derail.
Each boxcar brightly painted
is an emblem of departure.
We need these markers or makers
the way someones need things.
In the fall, we'll throw trinkets in the river.
Forget and want: the water always finds us.