Sunday Poem

The Right Words

After months in the far north
they return, like snow buntings,
in a blizzard of wings. I did not
think they could thrive in icy climes
but here they are, searching the wrackline
for drifted seed. When they turned pale,
fell between a rock

and a barren place, they lay
deep in a corrie in a nest lined
with sheep’s wool, fur
from a mountain hare.
And down from a ptarmigan
conferring resilience
its chameleon gift.

by Kathryn Daszkiewicz