Music in the Air

One sparrow does not a spring make,
Neither does one swallow a winter break,
Yet it is mid March still cold and chilly,
Still the birds sing themselves silly,
Chirping away at top of their little lungs,
Singing in their many different tongues,
Hiding in the naked trees branches,
Watching a squirrel grabs and snatches,
Polyphony of unique loud sounds and chirps,
Bouncing off the tree trunks the music swings,
Had I been a composer – a melodist was I,
I would write a symphony- to hear it is to die,

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