Lizzy Burnam 🐞

Watching your breath 
cloud and dissipate
in the pink winter morning. 
Chatting with chickadees 
about the old rains that came, 
the rains that left, 
and the worms that sprouted 
after. Good instincts, 
the chickadees say. 
The chickadees will say anything
to make you smile, that’s why 
they make better friends 
than the crows, who speak 
only the truth, even 
when it feels like frostbite
and sounds like a dead root 
snapping under your foot. 
Good instincts, the crows 
also say. When you fall in love, 
your love glistens on your skin 
like dew on a blade of grass, 
and here, you’re in love always.
Each moment straining 
into the next like the arrow 
of a compass—on
is where you’re going. 
You take your home with you, 
break it into small pieces at dawn
and carry them in your teeth 
to reassemble at dusk. 
You can sleep anywhere 
soundly, with your home 
in your teeth. Good instincts, 
the chickadees say. 
They hop from branch 
to branch, stuffing sunflower
seeds into nooks of bark. 
You watch them for a few sweeping 
moments before remembering
the soil beneath the snow
and continuing on.