hear the shivers
in the birches
the hiss of the fallen
watch the dance of the nearly naked
in the hustle rustle
of the morning music
Even the modesty of the oaks
has given up her tattered brown dress
to the siren call of the wind song
the return
of long lost friends
as they remember the feeders and the corn.
The frost on their feet but a trifle
they huddle together and eat
squeeze the last
of the mild
from the mornings
and in the chill of an early fall
wrap warmly around the coming season
the quiet morning
avian company
and tea

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