Watch the bird with me,

the start of something,

a whirring crocus,

little thing

of spongy moss

climbing

a paper portrait and

mounting,

further diminishing

like a pebble

being sucked down

or drilling,

exiled in a frame

of fraying clouds

(stops of breath, sparrow diction, hairpin bends in dreams),

all the while acquiring the subtlety

of winter

and winter oak

(unwrap the image of the blue felt hat I always wore on the heath)

because sometimes flying can be

like that

(like the thing that calls you back),

flushing

towards memory.