Window Study

Enough snow fell again to name this weather 
winter. A thin white layer coats
every branch. My thoughts too hang 
newly stark: how when I came out, I traded
fascination with the lives of spies
for interest in moon and crows. Grew other
feathers, one might say, other spirals. I mistrust,
still, the metaphor of closet; to be ace 
is to carry a decoy everywhere, assumed
full of secrets. A dossier or case. It weighs 
almost nothing, like this dusting of snow,
like habit turned instinct. It holds 
space named lack for lack of language,
but why should a self require decoding? I am
here like the hills, like the branches exposed   
when the breeze brushes away their cover.
Say forest or trees depending on how you want
to think. I let myself want nothing
but this gray dawn, crave an absence of labels
across which to trace new paths. Spies are found
vanishing in landscapes like this, and birds crying
the keen truths of their kind.