blue feathers

the bleakness
of January
the empty
grey trees,
the patches of
ice, soured
in the sun
and dirty
breeze.
the broken
limbs
across
the fence.
a few dead
birds.
frozen,
lying still,
the color
in their feathers
not washed out
by death
or cold.
but still
bright with
hope.
nothing brilliant
disappears
you want to
believe.