We had our last (we hope) snowstorm of the season this past week, and I could hear the spring birds singing at dawn.
Blessed Be the Snowbirds
No, not the ones that flee to
Florida
but the ones that stay and brave
winter’s
last storm and sing, though the
dawn
be dim and flake-filled, they
believe
in the calendar and not the cold.
Yes, I know their songs may be
more
battle cries than lullabyes,
bragging
of what they have and wailing for
what
they want, but that makes their
singing
no less beautiful, merely more
real.
Maybe they are winged Whitmans
singing songs only of themselves,
but they sound more like they’re
rejoicing
at the dying of the night, and
this dark
morning, they have sung me into
song.
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