Kneading bread while watching birds,
I see them hop and flit and pick and fly,
Leaving tracks in fresh fallen snow.
They feed since fast the day goes by.
Punched down, the bread is left to rest
To breathe and grow and stretch and sleep,
Like the living loam of earth beneath
The snow that blankets it so deep.
Dough surges up to peek above the bowl,
The darkness deepens early in the winter skies.
The birds have gone to roost till morn,
And like my bread, so slow the moon will rise.
