I’d forgotten they were there

a world of them flitting through air

with jade and sapphire wings at their side

unshaken when two seasons collide.

Unnoticed when the tangled roots are spry,

their nests don’t seem quite so high

for a coyote or even a fox to spare

yet still I’ve found, they’re always there.

And when those twisted vines do fill with spring,

and a wealth of green on which to cling

their brilliant feathers spread and swing

and bluebirds in the alder sing.