Birdview,1

An impossible omen, bright,
The red cardinal in the rime and frost
Of this iced morning. What symbol do I take?
Of my viewing, what sign is importuned?
When such bloody banners rise stark,
In the thickets of dead-grass gray,
They are not subtle hues, but floods
To vision. No, it cannot be just chance,
Surely more than circumstance’s dance.

© SXT 2023