Winter Chases

Even the sunshine does not herald the morning
Better than these dancing gulls.
The trees in the distance are pale –
They are across the pond and white flocks
Of chasing the winter air.

This is the season of nothingness; there is not even snow.
How, then, are these birds so alive?
It must be restlessness – chasing and frolicking
About their wild ambitions. The water has doubled
Their appearance; it does not hurt to have more.

If they are not flying they are like lily pads
On the water surface. When the wind blows again
They begin to circle like a ritual. The morning is no longer dead –
The rippling water testifies to that;
In it is the reflection of little children chasing their breaths in winter.