The snow slides to whoomp, thud down from the eaves. Winter bestowed a view of mountains between these now bare trees. If I feed forty juncos does it matter I killed one? If my anger’s righteous, might they forgive the gun? They scuff at snow and twitter, coo and caw and tweet. They quibble over seeds, then sing shout from the trees. Friendship doesn’t cover it but we know where we stand. I adore all of the birds, and I’m your biggest fan.

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