The winter bird is contemplative.
Unlike the bird of spring,
or even the bird of autumn
it is much less inclined to sing.
In winter there’s isn’t enough daytime to spare,
but all the time in the day to reflect. Winter is a time to prepare
For the ecstasies of spring
The headiness of summer, the enchanting rain
The mellow pleasures of autumn
Till winter comes visiting again.
And the winter bird sits down to comprehend:
Does a circle have a beginning? Is the beginning also the end?