To a wintering bird

If I have carried more than seed to your shy seclusion in this bush, it is because, my friend, I think I've seen in your January hunch something tired and wise that knows all winters. I've heard the fingering winds that strummed your breast and sang you through the summers that, if you remember now, you're guaging them through a winter ear and seeing farther whiter slopes than these, winter beyond winter rest that finds in the dark tuck of a wing boughs whiskered with rain bending stalks sprinkled with seed still growing heavy heavy with love from my hand.

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