There is no other mystery, than the mystery of oneself, relinquishing all hope to that of guilt.
Right now the birds are cold.
Instead of migration, wings bold
hard to find materials for sleeping
this time of winter, however
they cuddle each other
and express themselves in song.
My attempt to mimic them is
subpar, though it’s amusing
I smile, because even though
temperatures are low, these two
feathered little creatures
put on a show.
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