The snows melt, but the green grass
of spring is weeks away, buds
on the branches a month down
the soughing streams where
the snows run as clear water
cold over dark pebbles, and
the songs of birds many a
pinion strike away, in distant
lands with nets and guns
to catch them before nests
will be built on barren boughs
that stand still over melting snow.
02.04.2023
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
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