Now and then say a prayer for the tiny birds,
no bigger than a child’s closed hand, who brave
a cold so deep that creatures ten times larger,
a hundred times, cannot endure its chill.
Watch them dance from branch to branch,
from tree to tree, scattering their chirps
like seeds of joy, as if all life were play,
regardless of its hardships.
Maybe that’s the secret these winged ones
came to tell. All is play, made for our gladness,
even when the winds are harsh and cold
and snow falls.