It’s January
And the winter wind does blow.
But there is nothing
Threatening in it.
The little bird
With brassy breast
And smart, sharp beak,
Sits up on the fence.
When other years
He would be hiding
Deep in his shelter,
When other January’s
There would be silence on the air…
This little bird
Dances on the point
At the top of the highest post.
He thrusts out his chest
And sings his glorious song.
It’s not spring yet,
But he is practicing.
The four hawks
High up in the clouds
Circle around and answer
Back…
What wisdom
Do they have?
Or are they boasting
Of their good hunting
In this most mild
Of January weather?
legomai1 