All the flowers are sleeping,
A feather blanket of snow
Over them.
Blue Jay balances on a dry old sunflower's bent head . . .
He dives under . . .
He strikes out seeds with angry beak.
His wings are barred with frost,
His snow-dusty feet
Are like dull crystal.
I like him . . . almost . . .
But must he keep on screeching in such a voice
And the flowers at their wits' end
For a little quiet?