On this first crisp morn.
Her breathe sits, udisguised without warmth.
Her destination plotted with each crunch.
The open air droops, heavy, lacking song.
Chicka dee dee dee dee dee.
Chicka dee dee dee dee.
Her songbird had taken flight, black-capped, into the fallen night.
And so she waits.
For the return of a steeper angle.
For her breathe to be taken by brilliance.
For his song to fill the emptiness hang
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