much to hear this
time of year
from the mute cold throats
of the rough
fruitless bushes
which crouch low
and hold their ragged
breath in the wind
while a whole mess
of sparrows—all
hunger pangs and urges—
whinges now for shelter
and sugar
in their branches:
never mind
what "speaks to you."
It's all about what could—
but chooses
not to.
