the cardinal

By Erin Staley

I first spot the cardinal

over the weeping redbud,

a flush of rouged leaves

brushing away its secrets.

The wind wanes 

its twisted sheet,

folds itself beneath the red underbelly–

blotted blood on blue sky.

It dives onto the beech

and grips the budding branches.

It reminds me of emergence–

of how long it took Lazarus to wake. 

It sings into foliage

piercing the leaves 

like rusty hinges opening

for the first time in months. 

Below, in the bark,

the insects start to wake.

Spiders, caterpillars, cicadas

creep from the soil.

Swooping, the cardinal

arches velvet wings,

cradles the air,

and marks its place in the sky.

Red like dawn

cresting horizon–

like death’s deviation

morphing into birth.

I shudder into the spectres

of slush and stiff grasses,

cling to the rosebuds 

and the dew that shoulders the frost.

The ruddy beak crooks

through soft darkness,

latching onto the frame

of a shimmering katydid.

The violence of the act

absolves me, makes me

take notice. The leafy body.

writhes in its clutch.

In the warmth of spring,

the harshness of winter lingers still.