I don't exist, whispered, heard, not quite believed as I don't quite believe anything.
Then, at the window, a small black bird stippled gold. Then another and another, wings dipped in gold, winter starlings.
A sudden clamor in the snow, in the branches of the evergreen, and then far off all of them congregate on the boughs of the naked oak.
We won't exist, together, the veil of milk fallen from our eyes, gold from their wings,
when it all goes green again, green again.