Is it any wonder that the birds wing to Pine,
Whose every branch silhouetted against grey clouds
Is adorned in feathers,
Calling:
Come! Bring your findings,
Those bits of silken fluff
Plucked from cracked pods
Once open
Bearing orbs of sweetness
Spilling honeyed fragrance
Out into the warm days of yore,
Those dry grasses and twigs
Remnants picked from a waving green ground
Where droppings scattered by the wind shaking loose
Dead weight below a shade-giving canopy
Awaits your beak,
Come! Weave your nests here,
In this bleak landscape
I will be your feathered home.
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