I can’t hear the trees
 

for the birds. Two of them

trapped in our garage,
 
a flutter of wings, a wild

cooing among the bicycle dust
 

and giant trash bins.

Near my idling: forsythia blooms.
 

Listen: I’m afraid of my husband

taking me by the shoulders
 

and telling me I disappoint him.

Still, I wait. Of course a broom
 
would be quicker. Even I know that.