Tilted toward the shortest day, months away from her return, there came in the wafts from the south, the full flight and fluttering joy, for two eternal days, there was no death, the leaves turned green once more, floating back to the tree.
The storms are most certain, the long and dark days on their way, those shivering lonely mornings and the longest of walks, alone. Spring is so long away. The seeds and nuts are laid, the buds tucked away, Winter’s demands foretold, but yet here presents this day.
Promising warming nests, globes of blue, and supple orange breasts, this day, promise holds, a promise of giving and love, nature’s gifts.
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