White-Eyes

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.