Behold. Winter is come.
The World is silent.
Not a whisper to be heard
On this frozen morn.
Except for quiet
In the "waiting room"
Doves await
With patience
Food they know will come
From a humble
Human friend.

Then smaller birds arrive
For what they can derive
Pecking at the snow
Searching high and low.

So precious and so sweet
So perfect and petite

Then down there
In the field
Out there in the snow
All the way below
My window 
I see my other friends
Searching for some scrap

In among the frozen corn.
They look my way forlorn.
For them I would give hay
But I have heard it say
"Don't do it"
For it could cause more harm
Than good.
Poor babes
In the wood.

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