Culvert Space

I meditate the road above;
a humble coat of needles for a cushion.
Cached, supine, by ragged boughs.
The broken willows are in careless piles -
last month's collection by windy fingers.

I wonder at the cool of this shade;
a full fathom less than
April's throttling white light.

Hidden eyes slide around
the highway fliers, tasting their speed.
I dig fingers in their brains to find
where and why they speed away.

Then, flash!
My prying stare cracks.
A formation of bold wrens wheels and
turns like a mass of mad barons
and I spill backwards, blanching.

Their chests are tooth ivory, their wings:
perfect charcoal points.