They winter here beneath
the snowberry thicket
as if it was their home. 
In late spring they fly away.
To where, I do not know. 

I will wait for their return
when autumn turns to gold
with cold coming strong winds
when again, beneath the thicket,
they will poke and plod about.

I like to think they know me
these little brown skittish birds
who scurry about under the pine.
I do not know that they do not 
know me nor do I need to know. 
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Portland, Oregon - May 26, 2022