Past heron nests, the crazy straw baskets
from which long necks and beaks jut out,
silhouetted against the white sky,
odd how they keep their balance
and crown the dead swamp trees.

I know I'm almost there this wintry day
when Wachusett's peak appears on the horizon.
I'm headed to the mountain, seen from the same
stretch of highway where the sun illuminates
the stand of silver birch, a single row
at roadside, frail as my mother.