Guilt in Spring, A Qasida
Snowmelt, then phoebe, nuthatch, cardinal, yellow finch, and two deep cuts on bark that claws had etched. While she sat musing, something hungry watched like a roving bandit or fairytale witch brewing the spell her betrayal would catch: a sleep of a hundred years, a mind without stretch. When her bones sparked like grindstones, she flinched. Something dextrous was lifting the latch.