A dry snow, they call it;
Powder that doesn't stick to itself
Whifts in little drifts across my front porch.
The gray of the porch paint,
Gray of the heavy winter sky,
Set apart the white bands with little tracks.
Three forward, one toe back,
Trailing scribbled lines across the snow,
Footsteps dance around the scattered birdseed.
Dark in the winter's light,
Sparrows gobble up the birdseed,
Celebrating an unexpected feast.
Common birds, trash birds, dull --
But little voices, the sparkling eyes,
Remind me that Winter will soon be gone.
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