… and no birds sing

Etched. Filigree tipped,

the dead of spring. Sapless.

Stark sentinels in white beauty

reach down to frost-silvered grass

and ungathered leaves.

No hiding place for fledglings.

Budding sweetness,

bursts of thin warmth.

Sap-rising. Emanating

upwards and outwards.

Renewal of life and hope.

The fledglings – where are they.