There aren’t four seasons; there are fifty-two,
and color and light’s changes mark that time.
Not seen enough of birds with light shot through
their over-hanging feathers, fierce like rhyme
that gets you in the gut. It’s true I find
most things that grow and dance and die are sure
of little. En masse, we commit the crime
of brush and sculpture, shaping metaphor
from where there was but clarity before.
This January to the height of June
is not the only contrast anymore:
there come dry evenings and morning monsoons.
The soggy songbird sings the sunlight in,
then dusky cat eyes paint it gone again.
Anna Autilio is an environmental educator at the Vermont Institute of Natural Science. Anna's poetry has appeared in Rainy Day, The Fine Line, Silver Blade Magazine, and Sharkpack Poetry Review. Find more on Twitter @swivelandjess.