Where do the chickadees sleep at night,
when the wind blows this strongly,
and ungloved hands flee into pockets?

Do they wake in the morning,
blown somewhere new, strange -
tumbled through the dark, unaware?

Is this the reason for their dee-dee-dee -
as they flit and hop,
are they calling for home?

They say chickadees will eat from your hand,
but I have yet to even capture one under my lens -
they flutter from tree to tree instead, as if to bid me follow.

Perhaps they've heard me,
weeping under willows now silent;
recognized the song of another tumbled through the dark,
and wish to show me the way home.

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