• In the first dawn of light,
    the white bird takes flight.
    Purest down crowns
    the sky,
    and simple feathers
    drift beneath
    the bright lit
    clouds.
    Heading south I should
    presume, heading
    warm I should
    assume.
    Every winter that comes,
    I see them leave this
    place, seeking
    warmth, and
    seeking spring.