Early morning, late in the year,
the newborn day is still
holding its breath.
In this first fragile hour of
pale, yawning sunlight,
the frosted grass shimmers:
emerald tipped with silver.
Blink, and for a moment,
even dirt can glitter.
I warm my wings up gently, stretching through their span,
dislodge the city's coating:
a flat, greyish grime.
Resist the wish to call out, celebrating dawn
this open sky my only secret,
rare enough to keep.
Now perching on the edge,
epitome of patience,
my claws embrace the chill;
down feathers nestle in the air.
The winter sun flies higher as earth
contemplates a thaw,
I shift my weight and wait
for the ice below to break.