ADAPTING
The towhees keep us company
For a little while along the edge
Of this high ridge road, hopping
Like robins, pecking like hens for bugs
Cocooned on crackling oak leaves
Loosened from snow by slanting midday
Winter sun. We’ve never
Seen them up close before. In summer
They scrabble in shadows, but now
The white painter’s cloth spread out
Over the forest floor
Herds them into the roadside leaves.
They are not ptarmigan, bleaching
Their browns to blend into blank
Surroundings. Towhees make do
With leftover camouflage from autumn.
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