A minuscule bird clinging to a twig
is shredding a loop of knotted string
to a fibre-fuzzy mist in its bill,
a haze as soft as cotton wool
with which to line a nest no bigger
than this small cup I lift to my lips
while I wait for you in this little coffee shop
on the avenue, for such is April.
'Espresso', a poem from Colette Bryce's Self-Portrait in the Dark.