The birds of a winters evenings

sometimes a ifs I came home in the late afternoon, in winter, there would be the odd collection of birds in the trees in front of my home.

                                   

                             The unmoving of the air sings the midwinter sigh

                             Trees being unheard veils of the summer memory

                             Their thin rhythm hold alighted evening notes

                             A suggested whisper touching the dusk sky emptimness 

                             These birds placed improvisations bright with some aria

                             In the fabric of the turning season slumber

                             A winter air lullaby a roosted moments harymoy

                             To the wan sun and the years setting