february snow moon

in my left hand
a green anjou pear,
slightly bruised,
still believing
the first bite will be
sweet and soft and wet.
sunglasses and keys
dangle from careless fingers
that grab too much
in impatience.

earlier, I had watched
two anhingas dive
and swim
and furl and unfurl their long necks,
trying to remember their nickname:
snakebird
which is exactly what it looks like
until it flies with its companion
to the droopiest end of a
dying laurel oak.

the weight of its wet body
sags the branch lower,
its lover circling beneath.

they mate for life.
they fish together,
dry their wings
under a forlorn sky.

I wonder where they slept
beneath this February
snow moon.

in my right hand,
my phone,
as I fumble with the gate.