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In winter
  all the singing is in
     the tops of the trees
        where the wind-bird
with its white eyes
  shoves and pushes
     among the branches.
        Like any of us
he wants to go to sleep,
  but he’s restless—
     he has an idea,
        and slowly it unfolds
from under his beating wings
  as long as he stays awake
     But his big, round music, after all,
        is too breathy to last.
So, it’s over.
  In the pine-crown
     he makes his nest,
        he’s done all he can.
I don’t know the name of this bird,
  I only imagine his glittering beak
        while the clouds—
which he has summoned
  from the north—
     which he has taught
        to be mild, and silent—
thicken, and begin to fall
  into the world below
     like stars, or the feathers
        of some unimaginable bird
that loves us,
  that is asleep now, and silent—
     that has turned itself
        into snow.
Mary Oliver
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