conuly

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.

Link