Cedar Waxwings

 By John I. Blair

A drunken, rowdy bunch,
Bellies full of berries,
They roister through the hollies,
Piping high, swooping low,
Lightening my gray day.

Each year I yearn to see
That waxwings are here,
A breath of northern air
Spilled south to freshen up
This stagnant Texas town;

And when they do arrive,
All gold and green and gay,
They help restore my hope
That yet another wintertime
Can be survived.

©2002 John I. Blair

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