like branches
where parrots have
landed--
mimicking
phrases
from various
ages--

she listens
and heeds them,
letting them lead her
through the snow
in slippers
with handkerchiefs
stuffed inside,
stopping and
nervously
looking behind.

"She wasn't always
this way,"
says a neighbor
of ours,
"she loved the
ballet--

Remember how you
loved the ballet?"
--Where are my slippers?
"You're wearing
your slippers."
--Is somebody there?
"There's nobody
there..."

...and on she
prates
as we guiltily wait
for the birds
to fly south.