By Nate Carman
The bird at the window
Thick as it sticks a toe
Into the cold bath
No feeling he hath
Preparing for the end
From instinct don’t bend
Gorging on the feed
Unknown that the seed
Dormant, forgotten it lay
Awaiting that warm day
The cycle nears its close
As frost bites my nose
The warmth shot like a gun
And still nothing done
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