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Gray Days of Birds [FIRST WEEK 



ward, climbing on fluttering wings, a mile or even higher 

 into the thin air, and in company with thousands and tens 

 of thousands they drift southward, sending vague notes 

 down, but themselves invisible to us, save when now and 

 then a tiny black mote floats across the face of the moon 

 an army of feathered mites, passing from tundra and 

 spruce to bayou and palm. 



In the morning, instead of the half-hearted warble of 

 an insect eater, there sounds in our ears, like the ring of 

 skates on ice, the metallic, whip-like chirp of a snowbird, 

 confident of his winter's seed feast. 



