The Junco

I think I've posted another poem called 'The Junco' somewhere, but after seeing them outside this morning it just seemed easier to write another one than to bother to look that up.

The Junco

...is not a bird
  who abides in cold snows below
  or the gray skies above,
He is of them,

Watch,
  they are calved of snow and sky,
White snow jumps
  atop skinny twig stilts,
Sooty clouds then condescend to cap them
  with their ethereal fingerprints,
Drawing on them faces and
  shadow fluttering wings to blow about with,
They are incipient Winters’ will incarnate

Yes,
  summers find them up the hills,
  in secretive nesting flocks where
Cool squeaks and icy trills define
  the boundaries of migrating Falls’ destiny
  and warm Springs’ brooding hatch

Between which comes mid-Winter,
  when blizzards chill all ill,
For then you find them
  at your window sill,
Shelling the sunflower seeds you just put out,
  for the care of seasons birds,
When the sight will melt your icy heart,
   for who minds should Winter take some too?