February by Marianne Boruch   February is crystalline. Inside these days, everything turns ice and shatters. No wonder a sparrow misses his leg, or doesn’t, the poet only imagines. “That sparrow on the trash again,”(emphasis mine) the story goes, welcome old friend, and the watcher from the window again, we also now envision. There is a sight that propels the observer into the observed, and there are moments, reading this poem aloud, where you stumble forward like a small bird landing on one leg or taking off again. No wonder the poet enjambs each line as ragged and precise as Robert Creeley:  a bird who cannot perch calls the sky exhaustion. When we look so intently into the sky, we return to see the…