monday morning late november sunrise

bow before the sunrise
in the still of winter
everything is zen
the frost, the chill
the loneliness
the barbarisms promoted
in warmer, holier
lands
and the cool protest
of winter birds
so tiny
they surely must freeze
but in the the cool fog
of morning they
sing thier glistening song
a whisper, a shiver
tracks in new snow
I am not the only creature
who has passed along
this path