SOMETIMES THEY SAY
There are signs of the Spring
but they hide yet sing : holes
in the pistol-side oak where
squirrels scurry; the marginal
flight of a new, early bird. It
never fails. How soon one or
two are found, dead, in the
street, and before they've
even grown feathers, just
down. Without a doubt,
some parts of this life are
cruel, not merry.
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