IN WINTER...

In winter all the singing 

is in the tops of the trees 

where the wind-bird

with its white eyes 

shoves and pushes

among the branches 

like any of us 

he wants to go to sleep,

but he's restless - 

he has an idea

and slowly it unfolds

from under his beating wings

as long as he stays awake,

but his big, round music, after all

is too breathy to last.

So, it's over.

in the pine-crown 

he makes his nest,

he's done all he can.

I don't know the name of this bird,

I only imagine his glittering beak

tucked in a white wing 

while the clouds -

which he has summoned

from the north -

which he has taught

to be mild and silent -

thicken, and begin to fall

into the world below

like stars, or the feathers 

of some unimaginable bird

that loves us, 

that is asleep now, and silent - 

that has turned itself 

into snow.

White-Eyes 

by 

Mary Oliver