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.