Today we welcome the clever finches
Who make it back in the fall
Having learned to sing Your names
Into the quiet corners of the yard
They know how to scratch them out
In words made of twigs and chirps
And whatever seeds are hiding
Like when You bent down
And left Your imprint on the ground
And then assumed a branch
And sang Your blood away
Some of it must have dripped
On the finches that imperial day
I pray that it also falls on us
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