The clouds are layered:
Puffy white, thin gray on blue.
Woodpecker rattles.

Robins in the field
Hop quickly in unison;
Don't seem to be worms.

The clouds are shifting;
In the sky there is motion;
Below, all is still.

Within the fenced woods
Some of the trees have red paint.
Marked doomed prisoners.

Even though it's cold
Unseen bird chirps cheerily
And lightens the air.

Three trees guard the woods
With signs that say "No Parking".
(Who parks in the woods?)

There, the stream is still:
No ice, no flow, no burbles.
Yet there are sparkles.