Tiny birds

there are these tiny tiny birds
that visit my yard every morning

so small they look like butterflies
against winter’s gray

they flit one by one
to a branch of maple,
laden and stark

and no sooner have their tiny feet
touched the bark
than they spring —
swirl in the air,
swoop back into the tree
again, again, again

like a leaf ripped from its home,
yet by some stubborn pulse
finds its way back

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