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A bird calls from outside.
No, no, I bury myself deeper
Wanting the comfort of warmth from the cold
The comfort of barely moving
In my comfortable, familiar bed

"It is warm outside," she sings.
The seasons change, with you or not.

Grudging, I get up. Clothes, shoes,
Take a walk.

My path curves around fenced backyards.
I smell it ...
White honeysuckle.
The unmistakeable olfactory harbinger of spring.

The trees are leafless, the grass dead, but
From behind one of those gray wooden fences
It wafts out.

I peek through, seeing nothing.
But it's there.

I'm not ready, I explain.
I walk on.
I need more winter.
We need more winter, I try to persuade.

Who?

At the cross, of this street to that,
I see the back of a bird.
It's black, but I suspect ...

The bird doesn't move, so I walk on.
I turn my head and look back.
Yes, a red breast.

I consider running at it,
Shooing it away. As if it knows,
It looks me in the eye.
"Really?" it seems to say, a slight sardonic lift of its head.


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