Tundra Swans at Christmastide

My flock of quail don't seem to mind the frost
though my bare hands have some regrets, chipping
the icy glaze that's grown across their water dish since dawn.
They miss no movement, feathers fluffed out,
invisible feet gliding across the fresh bed of straw.

A falling thrill of melody ripples through the yard
and the dog stiffens as I straighten.
Something unfamiliar approaches. The dog
begins a nervous bark that slides into a howl
I rarely hear him cast. I see no sign of life around
the nearby houses. The neighborhood is motionless
on this cold Sunday afternoon.

For a few moments I am lost in unknowing,
expectant as the melody shimmers from
every direction, stronger, closer, unseen.

Then the flock shoots over the roof of the neighbor's house,
some thirty birds, long necks like grace notes, wide wings
whispering on the wind, calling to one another as they
pass overhead, my dog bounding on frozen grass beneath,
head turned skyward, howling. Something

in their falling notes speaks to something
in him ten thousand years of breeding
cannot silence. In moments they are gone,
and I find I've been holding my breath,
stilled by this thrill of wilderness,
untamed, unbidden
minding its own way as it soars
like an ancient, holy thing over suburban ephemera,
in the way it has done since long before humans
could form words or conceive gods.

I shiver. Surely mine eyes have seen glory.