Hangs in the naked tree
Full of the songs to be
It sways when the red finches
And the streaked brown sparrows
Pull the seeds through its doors
First two or three come down
And soon another dozen more
Till fifty make a war
A fluttering frantic orchestra
Tuning up to a roar
Till they all take off at once
Leaving the naked tree more naked
With silence as if stunned
By some discovery
No comments:
Post a Comment