The day is quite cold,
white scenes I behold;
yet, bird wings unfold,
and their chirps are heard.
I love each sweet bird,
oh, I walk a path;
winters cruel wrath,
and the aftermath.
Yet, our life goes on,
with no woebegone;
soon, snow will be gone.
And small birds still play,
no matter what . . . gay;
on bare limbs they sway.
They gather in groups,
leave like paratroops.
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